


The Darksiders Trifle

by Granddaughter_Ogg



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Love, Multi, Polyamory, Sex, will add those as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 21,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granddaughter_Ogg/pseuds/Granddaughter_Ogg
Summary: Trifle is a British dessert, a hodgepodge of different sweet stuff put together in a bowl and doused generously with alcohol. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do.I don't trust tumblr at all those days, so I will gradually transplant all my smaller works here, too. They're not always stories per se - they're mostly headcanons - but hey, AO3 is nice enough to indulge me in this matter and you guys get some fresh (?) material to peruse, so it's a win-win.





	1. Headcanons, part 1

_ **A teeny-tiny headcanon about hands** _

**Fury** has always been right-handed. Being the consummate warrior that she is, she’d have no problem switching. She just prefers to use the right one.

**War** used to be a southpaw. But this little familial misunderstanding (pictured in the graphic novel, see for yourself) made our pouty murderboi consider a change. Wielding a blade as humongous as his beloved Chaoseater with an already heavy prosthetic would be possible - but it would slow War down, and he was never lightning fast to begin with. So he took the bit between his teeth and relearned to fence with his right hand. It was also a way of accepting the punishment, showing that he actually respects his big bro’s radical parenting ways. That’s just the kind of guy that War is. And once he sets his mind on something, he follows through with it. 

**Death **is left-handed himself, but you would never guess. Not with that murderous, flawless kind of grace he employs while wielding his twin scythes. How did he get to be so good at it? The usual way; by billions of hours of tedious practice. Death would never call himself _gifted_; in his own eyes, he’s just diligent.

**Strife** is perfectly ambidextrous. He embraced the flashiness that comes with being two-handed since the very beginning; hence the invention of his twin guns. Dual-wielding comes most naturally to him and thankfully so, cause Strife is way too much of a lazy ass to practice. A perfect foil to Death in that department. And in many others.

_ **Would the Horsemen let you touch their weapons?** _

“**Fury**, can I hold your whip?”

“Ah, you wish to be _flogged_?”

“Nah, I’d prefer to live. I meant I wanna feel up your whip.”

“You can feel it on your skin or not at all.”

*

**Strife** is not as possessive about his weapons of choice and therefore totally okay with your curiosity. He would never admit it, but our gunslinger is deeply insecure and basks in any attention you decide to give him. Asking about Mercy and Redemption ended with you two dismantling and cleaning his guns together. Good-natured, greasy fun. A lot of mess was made; kisses ensued. 

*

The day **War** would ask if you wish to touch Chaoseater marked a milestone in your relationship. It was a magical experience; you could almost feel the dark metal hum in contentment under your wary fingers. “It seems it takes pleasure in you being close,” War said. You blushed.

*

You do not wish to get acquainted with the Harvester though. Like, at all.

“Why do I always get the creeps when this thing lies around”, you mused once. “It’s like if your scythe was _watching me_.”

“That’s probably because it is”, said **Death** flatly.

You shuddered.

“Do I want to hear the story behind this?..”

“Doesn’t matter, because I’m not telling you” was your lover’s curt answer.

_ **Would the Horsemen give you flowers?** _

**Fury:** Unlikely. She gets iffy watching something alive just wilt and waste away. Also, the Black Rider prefers gifts with more staying power. A precious stone of fine craftsmanship? That you can wear around your neck for everyone to see? That’s more like it.

**Strife: **The only time he produced a single rose was when he got tipsy and decided to lap dance for you. The rose was more like an accessory (he held it in his teeth the whole time) than a gift though.

**War:** He heard about this human custom of gifting plants to your mate. Needless to say, he really went to town with preparations. A week or two of thorough research later (this boi can be bookish if he wants to) you received a humongous bouquet. There were red camellias, red chrysanthemums and various others; each flower meticulously chosen regarding its meaning in the flower language. You were left slack-jawed and moved to tears. War’s chest swelled with pride.

**Death: **He did - only once. One morning you just found a single flower on your bedstand. It was unique and ethereal-looking: shaped like a star, scintillating, deep velvety black when viewed from one angle and teal-coloured from another. You were sure you’ve never seen such a flower in your whole life. It didn’t belong to Earth.

“Death, you brought me this, didn’t you?” you’d ask later, beaming and standing on your toes, trying to meet the Reaper’s suddenly elusive gaze. “I think it’s lovely.”

Your Nephilim companion shrugged a little.

“It suits you.”

** _Would the Horsemen lie to you?_ **

**Fury:** Not likely. She’s a very no-nonsense person and dislikes fuss of any kind. Constructing falsities which then have to be remembered and upheld later counts as “fuss” in her book.

**War:** Hell no. Lying is unhonorable, right? He also believes it to be cowardly. War has little to none people skills, so if anything, you can count on him being too brash and tactlessly sincere on any occasion.

**Strife: **Well, uh, let’s see…it depends. On what, you might ask? On many things, babe! Like the topic. Or the degree to which you’re invested in the issue at hand, cause he’d hate to hurt your feelings. Or if he had fucked up so badly, he’s is too ashamed to own up to it. He’s so insecure he’ll stoop to “testing” your feelings towards him once or twice. Also, does pranking counts as lying?

**Death: **Yes, he would. He did on many occasions and you probably never noticed; he’s such a consummate liar, what with that stonefaced attitude he always has at hand. He did this to protect you, of course. Which sometimes means exactly what it means. And sometimes he’s just so scared of losing you if you were to face the not so-flattering-truth about his actions…he can’t risk that. Don’t expect him to admit it though. Like, ever.


	2. Imagines part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes good people of the internet send me writing prompts.  
I will stock these in here.

** _A fun (and kinda angsty?) idea for polygamy reader where they end up pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is and the boys are getting a little possessive and aggressive about who’s the father?_ **

Oh my, this is such a gloriously outlandish idea.

I think the moment that Pregnant!reader told the bois (and Fury) what’s going on, the Nephilim household would start to crackle and pop with some Very Intense Emotions.

**War** would be probably the first to claim his fatherly rights - mostly because he’s the straightforward one of the crop. Also, the idea of impregnating his bedmate excites him. There’s something so primal about siring a child that appeals to him on a subconscious level. He might get tactless about it, too - not so subtly stating that since he’s the youngster of the family, his genetic material is the one most probable to prevail.

Now that’s a way to make **Strife **royally pissed. Our gunslinger is the one among the Riders who took the news about his supposed infertility (they’re hybrids after all) the hardest. He might cover his frustration with an air of a charming goof without a care in the world, but the truth is he’s always perceived his inability to have kids a curse. So when it turns out that a Nephilim is actually able to reproduce - he desperately wants to be that Nephilim. Expect him to get all sneery and pepper War with not-so-minor putdowns. He’s not above: “But bro. You sure you stuck it in the right hole though?” At this point, Death’s probably gonna have to separate them before the Red Rider punches a Strife-shaped cavity in the nearest wall.

Speaking of **Death**. He’s deeply convinced that whoever’s this child is - it isn’t his. That would be just…too wonderful, and he’s not at all used to wonderful things happening to him. He’ll put on an act of tired aloofness, pretending not to care one way or another. Of course he _does_ care. And should it happen that he in fact is the father - he’ll rise to the occasion beautifully.

***

_ **Horsemen reacting to their s/o being rather loud in the bedroom?** _

**Fury** is mistress teaser and has a sadistic streak to her, so she loves it when you moan - especially if it’s to express pain or beg for more or whatever she’s doing. She considers modest silence on her bedmate’s part a proof of her failure as a lover (”if they’re being silent, they can’t probably be having much fun…”), so by any means don’t hold back.

**War** makes so much noise himself, he doesn’t really register yours…unless you two peak at the same time and form a singing duet. This doesn’t happen often, but whenever it does, he’s always stunned by how much this actually heightens his own pleasure. Expect him to say something along the lines: “You have such a beautiful voice…” after you both cool off. He’ll be really soft and rather shy about it, too.

**Strife** just loves it when you make noise. It makes his chest swell with pride of riling you up so much. He’s fine with incoherent wails but prefers worded communication. And he has honed that skill to a fine edge. Our gunslinger is the crassest creature you’ve ever slept with. The things you’ll hear from him during sex are too obscene for sensitive ears, but for you, they work just right - and he expects you to hold your end of this conversation. Also: the louder you cry, the wilder he gets. If others can hear you? All the better!

**Death** is usually a stealthy lover himself; to tear a sigh from him means his personal Earth is shaking. He draws great satisfaction from your cries of delight though. Your audible pleasure increases his own, so make sure to let him know how much you’re enjoying this.   
He’s not into crude language at all (in fact you’ve never heard him cussing in tongues other than Nephilim) and prefers the wordless moans and groans on your part. Words he finds distracting.

Unless it’s his name. He’ll never admit it, but hearing you draw out his name in a prolonged sob makes his head swirl - and as damn fucking happy as the Grim Reaper can be.

***

**_How would the horsemen feel if they found out that after the apocalypse, their s/o was a demon in disguise (but actually does love the horseman)?_ **

**War** would be appalled. Being as straightforward as he is - the Red Rider hates any kinds of deception with a passion. He considers it “unhonorable”, and that’s pretty much the worst offence in his book. Not to mention that you became his first love. He opened up to you in all the ways he never did to anyone before. You managed to convince the burly Horseman to come out of his shell of menacing wariness - and now all you stand for turns out to be a lie. That’s a wound that cuts deep, and hurt War clams up like a big angry oyster. You’ll need a lot of patience and a soft, non-offensive approach, because a single “I’m sorry” just won’t do. Words won’t be much of use here. Try communicating with your bodies instead. Angry or not, he craves you all the same - a short, sweet fuck might mend the broken bond. Also, letting him in (quite literally) will help the Big Guy realize that a demon or not - you’re still the very same person he loves.

**Fury** would probably blow a fuse and tell you to take a hike. She’s as blunt as they come, and this whole cumbersome business with fake Watcher made her allergic to people masquerading as something that they’re not. You’ll better stay away for a while. When her head cools down, she will find you - and listen to what you have to say.

**Strife** would be less hurt and more astounded. A demon impersonating a human being? And so well that he didn’t see through the charade? That’s damn impressive, as he can’t help but tell you while chuckling softly and shaking his head. When the amazement wears off, the gunslinger will sit you down and demand to hear the whole story. What made you, a fairly powerful being, disguise yourself as someone so vulnerable as a human? What is it that you’re running away from so desperately? He’ll want to know it all.

**Death** though…

Your heart pounded against your ribcage while you told him the truth. The ugly, ugly truth. You expected the Reaper to be wounded with your ruse. To feel disgusted by you. You were a demon after all, and his experiences with your kind have never been pleasurable. 

You belonged to the same kin as Lilith. The thought alone made you wanna cry.

He listened to you in silence, his stare as keen as always. Nothing in the hard, immobile lines of Death’s body betrayed his actual thoughts.

“But I know”, he said finally, his lips curling up a notch.

“You do?…”

“Of course. I can see your soul plain as day. And let me tell you: it looks nothing like a human’s.”

A wave of mixed feelings - dumbfoundedness, relief, terrible guilt - crashed over you so hard that you had to sit down. It wasn’t very graceful.

Death didn’t help you in any way. He just stood there, taxing you with that calm, yet unimpressed gaze.

“And you’re…not angry that I lied?…”

The Reaper threw his head back and let out a raspy little laugh. You’ve learned to cherish that sound.

“If anything, I’m amused that you attempted to fool me of all people. It was cute watching you try.”

Demons blush too - as you’ve just found out.

Death came closer and sat on his haunches. You didn’t dare to look at him, so he took your quivering chin in two fingers and made your eyes meet. That amber flame in his was exceptionally kind.

“I’m glad that you decided to stop lying. No one should be that ashamed of what they are.”

***


	3. More headcanons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such inventive titling, I know.

**S**trife and Death don’t get along because they’re quite similar.

Think about it. They both wear masks on a daily basis.

We know why Death wears his. It’s the only visible mark of how mentally tormented and guilt-ridden he really is under the well curated facade. He is also a mature, fully developed personality. He learned to cope with his shit. Eons ago, probably. He can be sociable and even charming - but most of the time he chooses to keep others at an arm’s length with snark. It’s as if he doesn’t want anyone to care for him, because he’ve learned that it hurts.

Being the oldest one of a family of adventurous and quarrelsome siblings made him agonise over them constantly, yet he will be damned if he lets them know. You know, with WORDS anyway. He has this compulsion to help others, no matter how much he bitches about it. 

We’ve all seen in Darksiders 2 that he is quite fearless. Yet somehow can’t take other people looking him in the face. That is literally his mask of sanity.

Death doesn’t know any other way of living than being needed and being (seemingly) in control. You can prolly tell how much I love him - and how profoundly sorry I am for the guy.

Now there’s Strife. He’s the only of the Four who went and helped humans without any orders from the Council, any prompts or promises. He saw a glaring injustice happening to the human race and he leaped in to help them. Just because.

It’s obvious that he’s not doing it for glory or something like that. He reinvented himself as Jones - that is his mask over the mask. It’s not about keeping the humans oblivious to the existence of other races - heck, they’ve already seen the angels, the demons and the Makers. It’s as if he couldn’t believe that he can be liked and accepted just the way he is. That just oozes of self-hatred.

Towards the ending of Darksiders 3 we see that he too can be snarky as hell - and quite a troll to boot. He enjoyed pulling Fury’s leg.

All the same, it’s obvious that he cares about his sister very much. He gives her a nice pep talk. And that “go, girl, I’ve got this” look at the very end. Words? To difficult to cough up when the mask of Jones is gone, I presume.

I think that the two brothers are more alike that any of them would care to admit. They share similar demons, they just deal with them very differently.

I believe that Death thinks of Strife as a perpetually moody teenager, a rebel for the sake of it, while Strife sees Death as a heartless stiff upper lip. None of them is right.

**Adventures in love**

**War **is the one that makes you remember how it felt to happily fall in love for the first time. Back when everything was gloriously simple. You didn’t know him, but when you did - the brightness of that understanding became a constant, as unwavering as the presence of the sun. He’s not a man of many words, but he’s always willing to communicate.

**Death **is the one that made you take risks. You’ve met someone valuable, yet hopelessly shut away in their shell, and you took pity on their self-imposed plight. That compassion made you more daring you thought you’d ever be. You’ve learned to be straightforward because he was so cryptic. You don’t get to understand him in full, but what you _do_ understand - you trust. You’ll probably never fathom the depth of his gratefulness.

**Strife** is the one that made you second guess yourself. He was the earworm that wouldn’t go away, the nagging puzzle that proved to be a mirror. You had to ask yourself: “Why do I feel so violently attracted to this man?” and learned a lot about yourself in the process. You were so afraid that he’s going to break your heart, take you all, use you and then spew you out with his practised glibness. But Strife was downright frightened. Genuinely _caring_ makes him feel helpless. He conceals this fear by being brash and charming and often obnoxious, but at the end of the day, he’s just a sad child, yearning for your affection.


	4. Personal Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna start to name those chapters somehow, because "Headcanons part 567" won't do. Still, the title is there only so that you could tell if you haven't yet read that one. Enjoy!

## Darksiders VS Personal Care

I present to you the Sliding Scale of From Kim K. to Hobo-ific.

**Fury** is the tidiest, neatest, most put-together person you have ever met. She’s damn Miss Perfect with a generous dollop of Extra. The amount of time and dedication she pours into her appearance could’ve put any Instagrammer to shame. Those intricate facial markings that she wears so proudly? It’s makeup. She puts them squiggles on her face every morning and they look consistent. She sits in the tub for hours and uses all the lotions, the bath bombs, everything. You wish you had just a fraction of her commitment when it comes to personal care. Truth be told, Fury with her lustrous hair, her perfect face and outfits on fleek often makes you feel like a slob.

**Strife** is an interesting example. He casually turns every environment that he lives in into a pigsty, but is rather vain and therefore cares about his looks. Not as much as his twin sister, but still. He wears earrings and had his nips pierced. He lets his hair be (mostly because its anti-gravity properties make it immune to styling), but most of the time they’re clean and they smell nice. You once gave him aftershave for Christmas. He actually uses it whenever he remembers; not that he has much to shave (not really), but because the act of patting the concoction into his face makes him feel like a rugged man of the Old West. 

Strife had way too many casual sex partners in his life to not understand how crucial Hygiene is. Of course he gets dingy during a prolonged mission, but will hop into the shower stall first thing when he’s back home. Will probably drag you there with him while he’s at it.

**War** doesn’t care much. He’d rather be feared then perceived as attractive. And if a scruffy appearance stacks up the intimidation factor - even better. His hair is beautiful but famously unkempt (those uneven strands!) The only part of his battle outfit that gets polished regularly is the sword. The pauldrons can cover with patina until they’re black for all he cares. All that said, he’s prone to new ideas that you present to him. Our big boy learned to enjoy a long, hot bath from time to time; nothing better to relax those tense back muscles!

**Death** is a…difficult case. First of all, he’s been low-key depressed for aeons. We all know how great this affliction makes one at personal grooming. 

Secondly, he’s a pragmatic man, used to living in stark conditions, getting by on bare minimum. Which daily baths are not. Death seldom gets bothered by hot or cold, or rain, or filth for that matter. He’s too busy attending to his reaper-y affairs. 

The first time you saw him, the Pale Rider was covered with a solid layer of dust, grime and dried blood of various enemies. His matted, tousled hair looked suitable for a crow’s nest (fitting, because he brought one with him.) You said to yourself “Oh, well” and decided to give this strangely appealing hobo a chance. Merciful fate put a lot of water tanks in your shared way.

As the adventure unfolded, you two got closer. You managed to coaxe the Grim Reaper into an actual bath, washed his hair and all. Not long after that you two had sex (he cleaned up nicely - see what I did there?) That might’ve made the cogs under his black hair turning.

The thing is, thanks to you Death associates baths with intimacy; the carnal and the emotional one as well. Not the worst connection one could make, while you’re always willing to reinforce it. He’s at his most trusting and vulnerable when you massage shampoo into his scalp. It makes you so proud that this wary, abrasive man who keeps most people at arm’s length with snark - would open to you this much.

## Tidying up the house with the Darksiders

**War** makes surprisingly little mess; he just tends to leave the pieces of his armour lying around when he’s exhausted after a mission. Will scoop it up if asked without making any fuss. The Red Rider will be damned if he actually gets this urgent human need for Housekeeping. But whenever you need someone to move a piece of furniture for you - he’s your man. After all, doing the heavy lifting means spending time together, and that makes his eyes gleam in contentment.

**Fury** is a perfectionist. Her personal surroundings are always as impeccable as her hair. Her shoes are sorted by colour; the content of her closet would put Marie Kondo to shame. It’s actually her that gives you a hint about a house cleanup long due. Well, not much of a hint as a: “Come on, human, let’s tame this pigsty before it gets out of hand.” She makes for an excellent cleaning buddy; can reach all the high places and is keen on details. 

**Strife** might be a sexpot, but he is a damn slob. You have no idea how old he really is, but his tidying regime belongs to a 14-year-old with ADD. His helmet, the elements of his armour and weaponry always lie scattered around. Mixed with oily rags that he uses for gun cleaning, various elements of machinery that he tinkers with, his used socks (yeah) and pizza boxes. Oh, the pizza boxes. He used to stack them on the windowsill, but then they toppled over and landed on the floor. Strife hasn’t touched them since.

The most fickle of the Horsemen won’t help you with any tidying up around the house. All you managed to accomplish was to make him keep his damn mess confined to his bedroom. Yesterday he tried to drag you in for a quick romp and you said: 

“Dude, I love you. But I’m not getting onto your bed until the socks are out.” 

Strife’s thick eyebrows met his hairline. Who knows if he takes this to heart.

**Death **leads a spartan existence. It’s hard to make a mess when you own as little as he does. The nature of his belongings might be inherently messy though. Some of the weapons he keeps in his room are of such…organic nature that you try your damnedest not to blink when looking at them - just in case they would _blink back_.

The Grim Reaper is not beyond simple housekeeping tasks though. He will do the dishes with you, no prob. You wash, he wipes then dry. It’s a relaxing experience.

## Would the Horsemen want to have children?

**Fury:** Hell no. HELL NO. Thank Creator it’s physically impossible. From her point of view all humans _are_ children. A smaller, even more helpless - but also more troublesome - version which would remain at her mercy and require constant care? Why would anyone in their sane mind yearn for that?

**War: **He…doesn’t know. Never really gave it a thought. The question stirs him up more than he’d care to admit though. The Big Guy is a late bloomer when it comes to relationships; raising a child seems like another serious responsibility for which he doesn’t feel prepared. After sleeping on this the Red Rider actually admits that yeah, he’d like a kid. He’d love to have a son. To show him the world, teach him how to ride a horse. How to execute your enemies effectively.

**Death** single-handedly brought his siblings up. It was an exhausting task - yet maybe the only one in his long life that he’s actually proud of. He’ll feign weary disinterest when asked; good luck with making him admit how much he actually misses this. Death can only be happy (well,_ at ease_) when he’s needed - and parenting offered just that. Also, other people’s spawn always seems to adore him for some reason. Should an opportunity present itself, Death will commit to it like whoa. So if you’re looking for a stepdad for your kid? Girl, look no further.

You asked **Strife** and he made a face. 

“You know I can’t procreate, right? “ he said, a bitter smile curving the corners of his mouth. “That’s the way I was made. That’s the way we were all made. From damn dust of two other species. So there’s no point in asking what I want. Nephilim are sterile, pumpkin. I mean, that’s probably less worries for you…“ his voice trailed off. You held your breath and waited.

The gunslinger folded his arms and added: “I can have all the sex in the world, you know. But I will never have a child.”

**Do the Horsemen's horses like the reader?**

That depends on the horse. 

The first time you met **Despair**, you were petrified. Horses always seemed like belligerent, fickle creatures to you; even those among them who had enough decency to keep their skin intact and all their body parts on their due places. Confronted with this half-putrefied behemoth of a mount, blazing with otherworldly teal fire - you were shitting bricks. You approached Death’s hellish-looking steed from the front as you were taught and said in a small voice: 

“Why hello there, Mr. Horse sir. I am a very…pedestrian person, so please forgive any possible blunders on my part, eh?”

Despair twitched his ears and stood still, so you tentatively reached out and traced his scary snoot with your fingers. The horse snorted mildly through what might have at some point in time been his nostrils. From that day onwards you became besties. And no one was more dumbfounded by this turn of events than **Death **himself. 

**Ruin **might be a large, intimidating animal, but after meeting Despair you approached him with a steady gait. Only to almost get your head casually bitten off.

**War** pacified his stallion and frowned hard. He trusted you. Quite a lot. Why wouldn’t his horse follow suit?

“Wearing any perfume on you right now? You are, aren’t you?” The Red Rider scrunched up his wide nose, taking in your smell. 

“Well, yeah…” you said meekly, scared shitless by Ruin’s fit of rage. “You told me we’re gonna do something special today, so I used this scent that you like…” The end of this sentence was but a nervous mumble.

War shot you a brief smile.

“I do. But Ruin doesn’t. We’re going to try again after you take a bath.”

You have yet to meet Strife’s steed and frankly, you are not so sure of your special horse-whisperer powers anymore. Apparently, the horse is just as moody and wild as the rider. 

You’ll never going to met Fury’s horse, Rampage. She doesn’t talk about him much, but every time that she does bring the name up - those keen pearly eyes get kinda misty. So you don’t ask.


	5. The reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And their number forever shall be four.

**Imagine Death coming back to life after his leap into the Well of Souls.**

Imagine him being resurrected by the power of the Seventh Seal being broken - and then facing his long-estranged siblings. 

He truly was a man forged anew. Gone was that vicious scar on his right pectoral. And so was his mask.

War, Fury and Strife haven’t met you yet. They didn’t know about the shared journey of the Reaper and the girl.

Nor that you’ve been waiting for him in the Makers’ Realm - just as he asked you to before he jumped. Counting on his return seemed ridiculous, but humans are pretty good at clinging to an impossible hope.

Nevertheless, the Horsemen could _tell_ that something about their brother have changed fundamentally. The lack of the ubiquitous bone accessory served as a testament to that.

The Nephilim were never ones for outbursts of affection. The four heavily armed, towering silhouettes just stood in a circle for a while, unsure of what to say or how to say it.

Death was the first one to break this pregnant silence.

“Well then, I’m here now”, he stated curtly. “What are you three staring at?”

“You, obviously.” Fury smiled and flipped her hair, trying her damnedest to look tough and cocksure and uncaring. But there was a soft spark in her eyes.

War just stomped forward and solemnly put one heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. Death slowly covered it with his own fingers.

Things have always been pretty easy between the two of them. This haven’t changed - to his relief.

Strife remained on the outskirts of the circle, hands in heavy gauntlets pressed into his hips, the gleaming visors of his helmet trained on Death’s pale, sharp features.

The eldest Horseman sighed inwardly. That one have always been difficult_._

“_Strife_. What is it now?”_  
_

The sharpshooter jerked - and pulled his headgear off in one swift movement_, _revealing his own face to the world. His mouth already twitching upwards, his stare unusually thoughtful._  
_

“You know what, big bro? I already forgot that you were such a looker.”_  
_


	6. How to make the Reaper blush?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How indeed?

Is it even possible? Death seems so pale, he’s practically ashen. Hard to believe his face has capillaries.

Can you agitate him by being brazen? By brushing your mouth against his ear and murmuring with your eyes half-lidded: “Fuck me raw until I cry”?

Not likely. Maybe his lips will tilt up slightly, maybe those ember-like eyes will flicker. But the bastard won’t blush. He’s old as dirt. He doesn’t get aflutter that easily.

But tell him that you love him. That before you met him, you didn’t even know that you could _care_ so much.

Throw it in his face with cheeky abandon - and watch the mighty Horseman change his hue. Savour the redness which creeps up his thick neck, marks his chest with splotches, drenches those steep cheekbones. Even the tips of his ears suddenly seem pinker. 

Death spent most of his long life hidden comfortably behind a mask. He never had to learn how to subdue this fluster. 

And now it’s too late. Because you can see and his eyes are wide and vulnerable, and Death spins on his heel and walks away, burned by this shame, suddenly unable to look you in the face, murmuring something superficial under his breath.


	7. When you have The Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got an ask on tumblr.  
"Hey not sure if you did this before but... How would the horsemen react to their s/o having the flu. (I'm sick and crave affection) 🤒🤒🤒"  
Let's read on to find out, shall we?

**Y**ou woke up one grey autumn morning and even before you’ve unglued your eyelids - everything was terrible. Your head was throbbing with a dull ache. Your bones felt as if filled with lead. You opened your eyes, made the heroic attempt to sit up - and groaned when your whole body spasmed with a violent shiver.

“Oh, for fucks’ sake”, you mumbled and then called out…

**1\. “War!…” **

Your voice sounded ridiculous - nasal, scratchy and weak, as if someone has stuffed damp cotton wool inside your sinuses. That confirmed your grim suspicions.

But he heard you anyway. The whole house trembled with the reverb of the Red Rider’s heavy steps. He stomped into your shared bedroom, filling it completely with that transatlantic frame of his. You noticed that War had already put on his battle gear. It made him even chunkier.

“What’s wrong?” He fell close to you, his body taut, his head low, lightning blue eyes scanning the room. Always on the lookout for enemies, that one. Always ready to protect you.

But this enemy has attacked from the inside.

“War…” you groaned, putting one hand on his iron arm. It was pleasantly cold to the touch. And you were burning.

“No one’s here, baby. I’m just sick.”

“Oh.” The Big Guy relaxed from his battle stance and looked you in the eyes, those wide silver eyebrows scrunching in worry. “Is it…your monthly affliction?”

This guy grew up with a sister, yet he was still such a Victorian when it came to phrasing those things. You would probably laugh if you didn’t feel so weak.

“No, War. But I’m hurting all over and I’m pretty sure I have a fever. I feel bad asking you this since you’re all dressed up for work already…but could you be a darling and get me some Tylenol? And maybe Vitamin C as well?

“My mission can wait”, War stated, making your heart aflutter. “Are you sure that those concoctions will suffice though? What else do you require?”

You scratched your head.

“Hot tea, I guess? A whole jug of it would be nice. Squeeze a lemon in it, will you? Just leave the peel outside…if you can.”

“I shall do my utmost”, said your boyfriend solemnly (you fought the urge to giggle again) and left the room.

**2\. “Strife!”**

It was a weak cry. He obviously didn’t hear it. So you tried again.

“Strife!”

Still nothing. What was that giant doofus doing at such an ungodly hour anyway? He should be lying next to you, snoring like a woolly mammoth.

“STRIFE!!! GET YER ASS HERE, PRONTO!”

That worked. You’ve hear some penetrating, metallic noise coming from inside the house. What followed was a yelp, than a shuffle of feet - and some muffled curses.

He stuck his bed head through the doorframe.Technically speaking, it’s always been a bed head. Gravity happened to other heads of hair. Strife’s was just…defiantly spiky.

“You awake, babe?”

“Nope. I’m hollering your name in my sleep”, you snorted.

He flashed you a toothy grin. “Aww. How romantic!”

“Please come back to the trite reality, Strife. I really need you to.”

“No worries, pumpkin. Your screaming made me drop Redemption on my foot! _And I was really getting somewhere with that improvement, too - “_

“Earth to the Horseman”, you sighed. “I am ill, Strife. And I feel like shit.”

His whole face changed in a heartbeat.

“Oh, babe.” Suddenly Strife was all up in your grill, the revolver forgotten on the floor behind him, wide black eyebrows pulled together, his large fingers framing your face. Which was hot.

“Oh, bubbles. You’re burnin’.” Strife’s touched your forehead a few times, just to be sure - and left a generous amount of gun grease behind. “You’re burnin’! Is this something humans do?”

“Well, we’re not supposed to…” you murmured.

His yellow eyes went round with panic. “Will you die?”

“What?”

“Please don’t die on me!”

You stifled a long, hearty sigh.

“I won’t kick the bucket that easily. But I need you to bring me tea and some meds. And stop being such a drama llama. It’s not helping.”

He did. And after that he went under the duvet and enclosed you in a firm embrace, refusing to let go until you get better. The fever made your head swirl; you were sleepy.

Your consciousness drifted away. The whole world was just Strife’s earthy smell, mixed with the tinge of gun oil and then nothingness.

**3\. “Death!…”**

“There’s no need for making noise”, a gravelly voice observed. “I am right here.”

“Death…” Your head snapped to the left and indeed, there he was. Sat cross-legged on the floor next to the window. A streak of dim morning light glimmered in his tar black hair, bringing out the purple undertones. He was sharpening one of his smaller scythes. His large hand swiftly moved up and down its blade, producing a tiny, piercing grind. You’d probably hear it earlier if your ears weren’t so clogged.

“Yes?” His voice was as level as his movements. It soothed you, this steadiness.

Death can take care of this. Take care of you.

“I am sick, D. Down with some bloody flu. My whole body aches.”

His face darted upwards; two blazing eyes met yours and then slid along your whole frame. There was nothing lecherous about it. Not this time. He simply assessed your state. Took it all in; the bleary gaze, the dark circles under your eyes, your unnatural paleness.

He silently put the weapon away. Stood up, leaned over you and cautiously swiped one damp streak of hair away from your sweaty face.

If two years ago someone told you that you’ll consider the literal Grim Reaper a comfort-inducing sight, you’d ask them if they’ve hit their heads.

But so much has happened during those two years. Like the whole Apocalypse.

“So it seems”, he said. “Which is unfortunate. What do you need me to do?”

You told him. You swallowed some pills (unlike Strife, D didn’t need to be instructed twice about where they’re kept), you had a cup of intensely lemony tea with ginger and some acacia honey, which he threw in in for good measure - and then you flopped onto the bedsheets.

“Imma gonna lie back down now…” you mumbled, your eyes already closing on their own.

Death sat close, his broad back pressed into the side of the bed, and reached for his scythe.

“Rest as long as you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Death?…”

“Yes?”

“Could you…read me aloud for a while, maybe? I really like listening to your voice, you know…” Your own was hoarse, girly and helpless. Pathetic. It’s hard to sound like a sultry vixen when your nose is full. But your Horseman didn’t seem to care.

His siblings went back home some time later and were taken aback by this unusual sight. You lying flat, transformed into an ailing burrito - and the Reaper on the floor with a small, old, worn-out book in his hand. His deep, raspy timbre sounded loud and clear, weaving the tale.

_“One morning - it was the morning that Moomintroll’s pappa finished building a bridge over the river - the little animal Sniff made a discovery. (There were still plenty of things left to discover for them in the valley. he was wondering in the forest when he suddenly noticed a path he had never seen before winding mysteriously into the green shadows. Sniff was spellbound and stood gazing at it for several minutes. It’s funny about paths and rivers, he mused. You see them go by, and suddenly you feel upset and want to be somewhere else - wherever the path or the river is going, perhaps.”_

War was the first to put a finger on his lips and stalk closer, but his siblings followed suit. They all sat around, enthralled by the voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book which D reads out loud from is of course "Comet in Moominland" by the one and only Tove Jansson.


	8. Would the Horsemen ask “do you love me?”

**Fury:** Let me rephrase that. It’s gonna be “tell me how you love me”, actually. And it won’t sound like a plea born of vulnerability either - more like a queen’s request. So you better won’t keep Her Majesty waiting.

**War: **His flabber got_ fundamentally_ gasted the day you declared this to him for the first time. Not at all because the Red Rider sees himself unworthy of love; he’s unlike his brothers in that department. 

It’s just that…he’s lived for aeons, and yet no one has dumped a love confession on him. Even once. Maybe they were all too afraid of dying. 

Anyway - War is still dumbfounded by that first “ I love you.” He’s still mulling it over. Also - once something has been said, he considers it_ valid_, so why in the world would he ask again?

**Death: **Yeah, nah. Maybe the day he starts wearing pink.

(His actions can be an unspoken plea for you to utter those magical, terrifying, unknown words again. And they often are, although he’d rather be_ dismembered alive_ than admit this. Just say it already.)

**Strife**: Too insecure to venture such a poignant question. Will try to turn this into a joke (as he does with everything) and playfully inquire: “So, do you like me? Just a little bit?” in a moment of vulnerability. He’ll be painfully ashamed of it later. 

So yeah, tell him that you do. Once a day, preferably. Just to see how that brazen golden stare of his suddenly mellows. Even if he’ll never truly believe his luck.


	9. Do the Horsemen use human curse words?

**Fury: **Just an assorted few which she’s picked up from Strife. She’s particularly fond of all the short, to-the-point ones. The Nephilim language wasn’t that word efficient.

**Strife:** He’s the resident human culture expert, so what did you expect? If anyone ever wondered how it feels to be told to go fuck themselves with a rake by a freakishly tall, demonic-looking otherworldly creature…Strife’s their best chance. 

**War: **Nah. But then again, he doesn’t talk much on a daily basis. That said, the Big Guy can be eloquent to a Shakespearean degree should the need arise. Like when a foe needs to be roasted.

**Death:** This man walks shrouded in verbal vitriol, yet strangely you’ve never heard him utter any curses. Any _human_ curses, at least. 

**Death:** *stubs his toe on something*

Also **Death:** *spews out a long, winding line of extremely foul-sounding alien noises*

**War: ***looks at him with solemn dissaproval*

**Fury:** Really? Are we in the barn?

**Strife: ** *slinks over to you and covers your ears with an exaggerated gesture of concern*


	10. How do the Horsemen admit that you were right after a fight?

**War:** _*grumbles*_  
**War:** _*clears throat*_  
**War:** _*hums and haws*_  
**You **_(_slightly puzzled by all those sound effects coming from the usually silent Horseman): What is it, baby?  
**War **(in a low voice): You were right.   
*_stomps away immediately so you cannot look him in the face_*

**Fury:** She doesn’t. Like, she will never admit it. She’ll just proceed to pretend that nothing happened as long as you won’t corner her about it, and possibly even longer.  
**  
**

**Strife: **It depends on how bad the tiff was. If you’ve locked horns about something menial, he’ll just brush it off with a shrug and an easy laugh. (”I guess you _were_ right, pumpkin.”) But if you’ve argued over something important - expect your sharpshooter to suddenly act as if cat got his tongue. He’ll occupy the couch for hours, pretending to be playing some video game, but not really, looking all strung and unhappy - until you come over and ask him what’s the big idea. “You were right”, he’ll whisper softly, pulling you close and burying his sharp features in your cleavage.

**Death:** Oh, boy. Death. He’s the absolute worst when it comes to this sort of thing, but you know this already, amirite? Expect the silent treatment for as long as he racks his brain, searching for that one ultimate argument that would tip the scales of RIGHTNESS in his favour. And the Pale Rider’s silence can feel icy and unforgiving as the Himalayan slope, too. Finally, he’ll come to terms with the thought that he’s lost. And he’ll be hella embarrassed about it.

**Embarrassed!Death: ** _*sighs pointedly*_

**You: ** _   
_

**Embarrassed!Death: ** _*sighs again*  
_

**You:** Use words, love.

**Embarrassed!Death: **_*approaches you from behind, closes you in a firm embrace and rests his pointy jaw in the curve of your shoulder* _I’ve been an ass.

**You** (smiling): Yeah.


	11. Un bee lievable

**Strife:** Guys, guys! You ain't gonna believe what I just found out!

**Fury:** (browsing funny cat pictures) ...It's going to be about the humans again, right?

**Strife:** Well, yeah! Remember those tiny flying balls of fluff, each one with a needle on their butt?

**War:** *solemnly* They're called bees, brother.

**Strife:** Yeah, them! Did you know that humans eat their puke?

***


	12. What are the Horsemen thinking when they're masturbating?

I seriously Don’t Know. Let’s ask them, shall we? 

**Fury:** EXCUSE ME?! Do you happen to have a death wish?!

***

**War:** _*gets red in the face. Like, lobster-red*_

**You:** …Well, Big Guy?

**War: ** _*runs away*_

***

**Strife: **O-o-oh, I love it when you get all inquisitive like this, babycakes. Lemme see. Most of the time I don’t imagine anything in particular - just the warmth, the general sensation of _fucking_, you know? Other times I picture doing you on the table, you know, that sturdy kitchen one, your beautiful asscheeks spread under me, my hard cock pounding you relentlessly, going in and out, in and out, producing that disgusting wet sound while you scream and grab at the table for purchase, you know? _*a winning smile*_

*******

**Death: **… … …

**You:** _*meekly*_ You don’t have to answer that question if you don’t want to.

**Death:** It’s quite all right. Because I don’t.

**You: **…want to answer, or?..

**Death:** _*grinds teeth*_ I don’t.

**You:** _*even more sheepishly*_ You don’t think of anything when you….? Or are you saying that you don’t masturbate at all?…

**Death:** None of the above. I JUST DON’T. 

(Yup, he’s a liar.)


	13. Eye of the Horseman

**Strife** has eyes that undress you. You always feel exposed under this brazen amber glare. It’s like our sharpshooter knows exactly what kind of confused want he inspires in you - and he wouldn’t have it any other way. That guy can make your heart skip a beat just by grinning.

**Fury**’s milky gaze cuts like her favourite whip. Most of the time it’s crisp and keen - unless she gets in a playful mood. Then expect a taunting, daring look that will make you blush as if you were a high schooler.

**War** is not one for mind games. His eyes are always very indicative of his current mental state. Solemn and focused when he’s on the prowl, scintillating with bloodlust during fights, big and dreamy whenever he sees you. When you two are together, War’s peepers become two serene pools of blue. So tender that it makes your heart wrench. 

**Death **always eyes you so diligently that you feel - dissected. That stark, indomitable gaze of his burns through the back of your skull. Lying to the Reaper seems a fool’s errand, cause he can see right through you. His piercing stare gets softer only while he makes love to you…and for a little while after.


	14. Time for some Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a prompt from one of the good people of tumblr. This is how it went:  
"How do you think the Horsemen would react to learning that their s/o broke it off only to later learn they were threatened by the Council to do so?"  
Let's find out.

**Fury: Mad**

She would feel as if she’s been slapped in the face. With a loo rag.  
Her pride cannot comprehend such humiliation. She used to think lowly of your race but learned to leave prejudice behind, open her heart and become more trusting. She really took a liking to you. And this is what she gets for her trouble.

After receiving the message she probably went and massacred something in the most unsightly way just to let off steam. She desperately wanted to hunt you down and demand further explanations, but again, that pride was like a chain that kept her pinned in place. You didn’t want to see her ever again? Fine. You weren’t going to. Even if she had to remain a flaming, festering ball of hurt and rage until the end of her days.

The revelation that it was all the Council’s doing falls on her like a comforting blanket. So it wasn’t you who have been proven untrustworthy - it’s been them and their scheming all this time. Fury feels immensely relieved that she hasn’t been dumped. She’ll go to you right away and act as if this whole faux-breakup was not a big deal at all, assuming a no-nonsense “why didn’t you tell me that they were threatening you, silly?” attitude instead. She wants to put this whole ordeal behind the two of you as fast as possible. And focus on making the responsible party pay.

**War: Sad**

When War got your message, he needed to sit down, because it felt as if he got clobbered over the head. With a church bell. He’s not that great with introspection, so he wasn’t able to name the feeling that crept on him. All he knew that it was as if all the colours, sounds and flavours have seeped out of his world.

The thought of finding you and asking you questions did cross his mind, but he rejected it. If you didn’t want him around anymore, it would be unhonourable to disrespect your wishes.  
He spent the next few days (or months) as in a daze, going through the motions of his Horseman work, but not really feeling alive. Even the primal thrill of bloodshed wasn’t there anymore. He ached all over, but couldn’t locate or name that wound. Whoever had the misfortune to cross paths with the Red Rider during this harrowing time, probably noticed how chillingly not-quite-there he seems to be, speaking even less than usual and killing mechanically, without mirth or mercy.

The news about this newest of Council’s betrayals had to be relayed onto him twice because he was too torpid to get what that means. And after the Big Guy finally understood that you didn’t, in fact, abandon him - gods, how he ran.  
How he made Ruin eat up distance as if he was a comet.  
How he lounged at you - and closed you in his enormous arms, pressing your tiny body to his chest so hard that you could hardly breathe.

**Strife: Hurt**

The gunslinger never was one to care much about pride or honour or somesuch. He thinks them to be superficial, fussy constructs. So when he got the message - he went straight to your place and banged on the door until you finally came out.  
“Babe”, he said, his yellow stare not playfully lewd anymore; now those gleaming eyes of his were big and hurting. “What is this? Is it, like, a joke? Because I ain’t laughing.”  
You gulped, remembering what the Council’s hellish emissary said to you. The memory of this creature made your skin crawl. So many bug-like eyes and not a mouth in sight. _Tell him that you don’t want him around. Only this, and nothing else. If you try something clever, we will have him killed._  
“I’m sorry, Strife…” you said, your voice thick from tears. “I… am so, so sorry. It is what it is.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I…need you to leave.”  
“Is that something I said? Something I did? Just tell me, for fuck’s sake! Don’t _abandon_ me like this!”  
“I…really don’t want you anymore. Please, just go!”  
You’d remember forever how this seven feet tall hulk of a man clad in spiky armour let you close the door on him without as much as moving a finger. How you crumpled down said door until you were lying on the hardwood, sobbing. How you could tell he did the same from the other side. And he cried, too. Big, ugly tears, his handsome face contorted into an unrecognizable grimace.  
You can’t tell how long he remained there.

It’s better not to recall how he spent the next few weeks. Let’s just say that he cannot remember either, as he was seldom sober.

And then he crossed paths with that Watcher and squeezed the truth out of them. He snapped the creature’s neck in his fingers as if it was a chicken bone and rushed back to your doorstep.

“Babe!” he shouted. “Princess! Pumpkin! It’s okay now! I got this all fixed! You can come out now, I won’t do anything to you, I swear!..”

You opened the door just a little. Strife barged through, scooped you into his arms and pressed his lips to your forehead, your nose, your half-open mouth, all while heaving for air and crying once again.

“Don’t you ever do this to me again, kid”, he gasped, nosing your collarbone. You could feel the wetness running down your skin. “I might be old and rugged and shit, but my heart seriously won’t take another blow.”  
“Please forgive me”, you whispered while running your fingers through his hair. “He said they would kill you if - if I said anything…”  
Small, joyless laughter escaped your Horseman.  
“Well, I feel as if I’ve been killed once already.”

**Death: …**

**H**e knew that this was going to happen. Sooner or later.  
Although he counted on _later._ He allowed himself to care, he indulged that stupid little flame that crept at the bottom of his age-old, dried up soul. Stupid little hope.

And now he hated himself for it.  
Of course, you’d come to your senses. You’ve finally seen him for what he was: a greasy, wiry abomination caked in mud and dried entrails of his victims. You were so beautiful, so innocent and full of life. He was a monster.

He didn’t go to confront you upon receiving the breakup message. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. After ages of avoiding Feelings altogether, Death didn’t know how to deal with them. He wasn’t willing to name all those pesky emotions, but of one thing he was sure. There were so many that if he had to look into your young, bright face once more… he’d probably break, collapse and couldn’t be repaired.

So he didn’t. He sent Dust instead. To watch over you. It didn’t matter if you hated him or not; should anything bad happen to you in his absence, the oldest Horseman would never forgive himself for it.

He isolated himself from his siblings (as in, more than before.) He’d spend a lot of time in some forgotten realms, sitting on the grass and looking at the alien sky, not thinking about anything in particular. Except maybe how tempting the call of the void is. What a relief it would be to cease existing. A small blessing, mercifully granted to any living creature between Heaven and Hell. But not to him.

The pain was always there, dull and throbbing and as faithful as a shadow. This was how it’s probably supposed to be from now on. Oh well, he was used to carrying vicious scars.

Finally, his siblings have found him and brought the news. About this latest fuckery designed by the Council.  
Death listened to them in silence. War, Strife and Fury were a little put off by him seemingly not caring. Although he did look like shit; his hair was practically dirt dreadlocks and the moldy remains of what used to be a perfectly nice set of clothing blew in the breeze on his giant, hulking, emaciated body.  
“So, yeah…” Strife finished nervously, feeling out of place while his brother’s stare went right through him as if watching something far away.  
Finally, Death spoke.

“They made her do this?” His voice was croaky from long lack of use. It was also completely level.  
“Ayup.”  
“They threatened her with my death should she say anything? I guess she doesn’t know I cannot be killed?”  
War shifted from one big leg to another.  
“Yes, that is unfortunate…”  
“Nevermind.” Death stood up. “Let’s go.”  
“But where to, brother? You'll probably want to see her first…”  
“Later. Let’s go kill the Council.”


	15. Not easy

**Fury** is the one who makes you agonize “I wish I was _that cool_”, and then you get to know her better. You learn that she spent her entire life feeling this way about Death. She’ll never cut you any slack because she holds others to the same ruthlessly high standards that she applies to herself. To be around her is to get better every day, to grow stronger whether you like it or not. Good news is - if anyone hurts you, she’ll bring you their scorched carcass on a pike. 

**War** is the one who’s not outspoken. He prefers beating his problems to a bloody pulp rather than discussing them. He is, however, surprisingly intuitive - always there for you when needed most. His is a highly emotionally driven nature and it lets you two connect on a unique level. When he’s done with your enemies, there will be no bodies to show.

**Strife** is the guy that everyone wants to have a one night stand with. He has this nervous, brilliant charm but is also fussy, childish and laid back to a fault. You got enamoured with him so hard that it hurts. Whenever he goes, life is a miracle, a feast. Although sometimes you do wish that he knew when to shut up. 

**Death** is the one that frustrated you most, at least in the beginning. Until you’ve grasped at all this desperation macerated in layers of top-notch sarcasm - and your heart wrenched. It took him so much time to believe that he actually could be someone’s valued friend. A loved one. Your shared emotional journey is of unmatched intensity.

It wouldn’t be easy-peasy to befriend - or to love - any of those guys. But it would be so, so worth it.


	16. What's in a name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oop. :D

**Young!Death:** Strife, go to your room. You're grounded.

**Teenage!Strife:** You're not my REAL dad!

**Young!Death:** *sighs* Of course I'm not. You don't happen to have one, you miserable runt. And neither have I, unfortunately, so you're stuck with just me. To your room you go -

**Teenage!Strife:** *makes a Bronx cheer*

**Young!Death:** St. Clair Rodolfo Isaiah Ferenc Elliot Horseman, you go back to your room OR ELSE. RIGHT. NOW.

**Teenage!Strife:** *has gone abruptly silent*

**Teenage!Strife:** How...how do you know about that?...

**Young!Death:** You think Lilith wouldn't tell me what your birth name was? No such luck.

**Teenage!Strife:** *whispers* This is wrong. Using this against me...is a low blow.

**Young!Death:** Useful, though.

**Teenage!Strife:** (going to his room) I'm yielding to a vulgar display of power here! I want you to know that!


	17. What do the Horsemen think of human lingerie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lingerie, huh.

**I** believe that our Riders have traversed various otherworldly realms and seen things that have no name in any human tongue. Then they met with the human race…and stumbled upon a small, yet culturally significant phenomenon that had no name in theirs. I’m talking about the frilly unmentionables.

The Nephilim as a tribe used to be extremely no-nonsense people. There were also very much in tune with their sexual urges. Most of them would just…go for it whenever they felt like it, no shame attached and no special ceremonies needed. Nakedness as such was not perceived as neither sensational nor lewd; it just was. It’s not the nudity alone that telegraphed intimacy along the Nephilim. It would take something way more purposeful. Like a touch. Or an offer to wash another’s hair.

That said - you’d be hard-pressed to make a Horseman blush just by letting your day clothes hit the floor. To them, the sight of your scantily clad body sure is pleasurable… but it’s not crazy enticing in itself. 

Of course, there are Exceptions. We’ll get to them.

Those guys are learning, you know. And the longer they’ve been around humans, the better they understand how incredibly meaningful the idea of lingerie is when it comes to human lovemaking. The general rule is such: the more domesticated Horseman, the more he or she _gets_ it. 

**War** is at the very end of this particular spectrum. He was almost a virgin when you two met; human customs outside of the art of organized carnage didn’t catch his interest. The way the Red Rider sees it, a bra is just this frustrating contraption invented to test his volatile temper. He fails to see the charm of little patches of irksomely easy-to-tear fabric, standing in the way between him and your pleasure. Also, his hands were definitely not made to twiddle with them. 

He prefers you naked.

**Death **is kinda on the fence with this. Most of the time he could do without those silly little knickknacks that provide neither protection nor warmth. His first instinct before making love to you was always to strip you bare. Then again, the more he begrudgingly dived into the fascinating, yet wacky world of human practices, the more he started to appreciate the clothes you wear. Bras and panties are still mostly _meh_ as far as he’s concerned. But there’s this one low-cut burgundy velvet dress that hugs your curves just right while revealing the whole back of your neck and your shoulder blades to him…yeah.

**Fury** used to be as business-like about this as War. Used to be. Then she found out about fetish wear and never looked back. Black leather and spikes. Metal chains and hoops in funny places. Zippers, cutouts and mesh. Blatantly unpractical stiletto shoes. The seductive magic of latex, which shines like oil poured on your living, breathing, moving body. Pieces that were designed for the excitement of the onlooker as well as for the delightful discomfort of the wearer. All of the aforementioned make her K-razy.

You see, **Strife** is our exception.

He’s been buddy-buddy with people of this Earth longer than any of his siblings. He traversed our world from one end to another and had a lot of fun with a lot of people.

This guy is an affable sex maniac, okay? He’s also highly motivated by visuals. He does appreciate a good rack as much as any other red-blooded person, but his favourite parts of you are your legs and your ass. By any means wear stay up stockings. He’ll be unable to stop stroking your thighs (and at some point will work those long, nervous fingers under the adhesive edge.) Wrap those buttcheeks in one of those sheer numbers that seem to provide more openings than coverage…and he’s your man. Feel the need to flaunt what you’ve got by wearing tiny bits of ivory silk and featherlike black lace? Go for it. Fishnets? Yes, please. Wanna be a stereotypical Hot Goth Chick today? Prepare to get your elaborate makeup ruined. Feel like dressing up as a slutty nurse? There is no cringe in Strifeland. Only enthusiasm and good fun.

You two will have a lot of fun.


	18. How to Entice Your Horseman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got an ask on tumblr some time ago:
> 
> "What are the horseman’s sexual triggers? Like, what’s a subtle thing the s/o would do that would make them go “👀”"

**S**ubtle, huh. I believe that our Nephilim bois (and a girl) are pretty much like any human being in that department. That is to say: it all depends.

Depends on the time of the day, on how tired/cranky/sore after a fight they currently are and so on. A generally happy Nephilim is a friskier Nephilim than a mopey one.

(This does not pertain to Death. He’s always low key depressed, has been for aeons - and his lover’s embrace is one of the few things that help him forget, if only for a while.) That said…

**Fury **probably gets her kicks off pleading. She’s a dom through and through and needs to have the upper hand. Her lover looking her in the eyes with a desperate, urgent need carved into their features, listening to them breathing “please…” might plunge her into an amorous mood in an instant. Not that she would let you know in an instant. Hell no. Beg harder.

**War **is the softest nut to crack of the bunch because a) he’s as easily excitable as your regular twenty-something and b) he doesn’t value mind games. If he’s horny - and he often is - trust me, hon, you WILL notice. It’s hard not to notice when you’re being held up and pressed against the wall while two enormous hands (one of them cast of iron) are frantically roving up and down your curves.

Should the Red Rider got caught in some unsexy train of thought…just stalk up to the sulking giant, lean over him and kiss the soft skin on his neck, just below the ear. That’s it. That will do the trick. Expect some bruises to happen though. Because he _will_ grab at you like crazy.

**Death** is…he’d very much like you to believe that he’s impervious to seduction. That whatever takes place between you two, happens only because he made a level-headed decision for it to happen. Is this the truth? More often than not.

But not all the time.

The Reaper associates the state of sexual abandon with weakness, and that’s a lot to unpack. Did this happen because he’s been abused all those centuries ago? That’s probably a factor.

Will he even open enough for you two to discuss just that? No fucking way.

Fast forward to the important question: can you make this beautiful, brilliant, highly damaged man pry the enormous stick outta his ass and just go for it? _Yes, you can!_

Try playing with his hair. Death doesn’t take much pride in his mane - he just lets it grow and chops some length off with a scythe when it starts to irritate him. But since you washed his hair for him all those months ago in the Maker’s Realm - he got to associate hair care with the deepest kind of intimacy, one that touches the soul as well as the body. So if you need to signal him that you’re ready to go and you don’t feel like using words…just weave your tiny human hands into those raven locks. Give him a scalp massage. Go for broke and submerge your nose in it (his hair smells like sin incarnate, with a sizable note of dead leaves thrown into the mix.) _He’ll know._

**Strife** is a walking NC-17 warning in any given circumstances, and twice as frisky whenever he falls in love. The question here is not how to make this man do the do. It’s rather: how do I get him off me for a minute? Because no matter what you do - be it that little coy smile you gave him, the breathy note in your voice, the way your favourite pair of jeans hugs your hips just right…it will all work.

That said, should the lanky sharpshooter fell into one of his Moods and you needed him to remember that you’re here - just speak your mind. The less refined words you’ll use, the better. Simple “get over here and fuck me” works like a charm.


	19. Verbiage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strife really needs to Know.

**Strife: **_(while biting into his grilled toast)_ So, do you like me?

**You:** _(preoccupied with fixing another toast for yourself)_ Eh?

*

**Strife: **_(while you hand him another nail, cause he’s in the middle of fixing the roof)_ Do you like me, pumpkin?

**You: **_(holding a shit ton of nails, trying not to drop them)_ Yeah, you reckon.

*

**Strife:** _(giving you a back massage)_ Soo. Do you…like me, if just a lil bit?

**You: **_(in the zone, because it feels so good)_ I do. You know I do. What’s this all about?

*

**Strife: **_(out of the fucking blue)_Princess. Do you like me?

**You: **…

**Strife: **@_@

**You: **_*sighing*_ It’s okay, Strife. You can ask that other question. The one you really want to ask.**  
**

**Strife: **_(looks away, jaw clenched)_I can’t.**  
**

**You: **Huh?**  
**

**Strife: **I can’t…spit it out. I’m chicken, okay? Becausewhatifyoudon’t….**  
**

**You: **I do love you, Strife. **  
**

**Strife: **…**  
**

**Strife: **…**  
**

**Strife: **Do you love me more than War?**  
**

**You: ** _Strife!_ **   
**

**Strife: **What? It was worth a shot.**  
**


	20. The First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was another tumblr ask I got.   
"I was wondering if you have any thoughts on how/when/under which circumstances the first kiss (as first in between them, not "the first") happened between Horsemen and their S/O?"

**Fury **was as straightforward and blunt about this as they come. The moment she realized that she wants to kiss you - she did. Suddenly her strong, slender hands were clamped to your waist and her lips covered yours with a force that couldn’t be denied. You stifled a startled giggle, closed your eyes and went for it. Finally she broke contact; you stared into those huge, pearly peepers of hers, trying to catch your breath and your scattered thoughts. She grinned wolfishly. “Did you like it?” she wanted to know.

“Y-yeah!..”

“Good. Because it’s going to happen again.”

**War** is many things, but smooth ain’t one of them. He remained respectfully chaste long after he realized his attraction to you. Especially because he realized his attraction to you. He was a whopper of a Nephilim, huge even by his own race’s standards - while you by contrast seemed so small and dainty. How in Nine Hells was he supposed to engage in anything physical without causing you hurt?

You on the other side didn’t care about this all that much. And having this statuesque man near, basking in his radiating warmth, feeling that inimitable mix of his musk and the lingering scent of old leather and smoke…really did a number on your senses.

One day you were busy in the kitchen while the Red Rider awkwardly hung around - and you have had enough of waiting.

“War”, you said, turning around from the kitchen counter and looking him in the eye with a smile, “Come here.”

The giant did, tentatively.

“Closer.”

War shifted from one big leg to another. You wanted to laugh so much; right now he reminded you of a baffled horse.

“There is not much space here”, he observed. “If I do one more step…we’ll touch.”

“Yeah!” you grinned. “That’s exactly what I had in mind. Come to me, Big Guy.”

War swallowed and stomped forward, his silver eyebrows scrunched, those bright eyes warily pinned to your face. You pressed both palms into his abdomen - that’s as far as you were able to reach. “Pick me up!”

This time he didn’t hesitate. Suddenly you were held in what felt like rock solid embrace of his metal arm, legs dangling high in the air, your face next to his sculpted features. You tugged him in for a kiss. There was a long silence - and then a breathless, joyful grunt when you finally gave him back his lips.

**Death** and you got quite physical not long after that fated meeting in the middle of a premature Apocalypse. Let’s just say that your first sex happened in Drenchfort. Without proper kissing though. Death was adamant about his mask staying put; you could nip at his neck or nipples or other regions all you wanted, but he made it clear that he’s not gonna reciprocate. You came to terms with that. His clever words and skillful touch melted you into a helpless puddle of “yes”. It was hard to imagine lip locking could make all this any better.

Eventually he _did_ kiss you - in a pitch black darkness of a cave, and again, not on the mouth. He removed the mask and went down on you with abandon that didn’t require words.

It became sort of a ritual during your journey. You two never talked about this, yet you’d wait for the night to come with your heart pounding, and he knew.

Your first “proper” kiss happened after the eldest Horseman died and was resurrected. He found you back in the Makers’ Realm, just as he promised at that desperate hour; that gruesome scar gone, his pale face (which you’ve seen only once so far, at the Well of Souls) out in the open. The kiss itself was nothing out of the ordinary, though. Maybe because you were violently crying.

**Strife** lunged at you while you were both quite drunk. Don’t do this at home, kids. It happened during one summer night party at your shared house, when the music and the alcohol and the merriness softened the edges of reality. Death somehow managed to drink himself into a catatonic stupor. War was already lying on the ground at the time, snoring like a walrus, so you turned to the most fickle of brothers for help. Strife did his mandatory round of jokes, lifted his hapless brother into a fireman’s carry, brought him to bed, let you tuck him in - and kissed his brother’s girlfriend as soon as you two closed the bedroom door from another side. It was hard and messy. It was desperate, glaringly tactless and fairly stupid - peak Strife behaviour. I have yet to write this story in full length, but rest assured. I will. 


	21. Imagine For A Sleepy Afternoon

That whole day resembled a piece of old chewing gum stuck to the sole of your sneaker. It was long, greyish, devoid of any appeal. 

You tried your best at keeping both eyes open; to sleep through a Sunday would’ve been a waste after all. You wolfed down a pizza. You watched _Haikyuu_, hoping that the hectic pacing of the show would pick you up. (It didn’t.) You tried to be productive and stuffed your washing machine with laundry (which later you’d completely forget to take out.) You fought valiantly - but to no avail. Your brain felt like a soggy crisp and your body craved bed. 

Finally, you followed its craving.

You pulled the duvet over your head. There, between the not-so-fresh sheets, the world amounted to a much smaller, softer, friendlier state. You were almost dozing off when the bedsprings creaked.

Then the whole bed groaned under its new, large tenant.

Larger than you, that’s for sure. You’ve heard the crackle of well-worn leather when two long arms closed around your midsection, pressing your whole body close to his. Then a contented sigh.

He smelled like summer rain, horses and gun smoke.

“Did you at least take your boots off this time?” you murmured.

“I did. I demand to be praised”. His voice so low, it was a but a lazy whisper. It cut through your drowsiness. Strife could make anything sound lewd.

“Good boy”, you murmured, rolling over to meet his stare. That pointy coif of his was damp and dishevelled; it reminded you of a miffed sea creature. You submerged both hands in his magical hair. Little nosey tendrils grasped at your fingers like they always did. You tittered.

His eyes were two oceans of amber. Serene. Smiling.

“Pretending to be a snail today, aren’t we, Princess”, he murmured, nesting his sharp jaw in the crook of your neck. 

“And you, the mighty Horseman, are snailing here with me”.

“Well, I know a thing or two about making things _wet_”, he announced with a proud grin and dived under the bedsheets.


	22. Darksiders: The Office AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would it be like to work as a Personal Assistant for the Horsemen in the Office AU?

##  **Fury**

She is never seen just walking leisurely - always in a hurry, this one. But it’s a decisive hurry. She strides as if she’s on her way to kick some ass. You have trouble keeping up with her, what with all those binders that you carry.

Fury will work you hard using minimal communication (“go there, do this, do that, print me those NDAs, book me a conference room, where’s my coffee?”) She doesn’t believe in the power of praise and is way too absorbed with company stuff to remember to dish it out anyway, so you’ll only know that you did something right when she doesn’t say anything. Should you fail her - brace yourself for some verbal lashing that will be as brief as cutting to the bone. You’ll probably trot to the restroom to cry afterwards. You and Death’s PA meet quite a lot in there.

##  **War **

This one always looks angry and noone has the guts to ask him why. Whenever he stomps the office corridors**, **sporting his trademark scowl - cubicle workers duck their heads to get away from his line of sight.You used to be terrified of this sulky behemoth too, only to realize that there’s a surprisingly reasonable person under the frown. War is a good boss; communicative, to the point (he resents pointless yapping, so his meetings are as short as possible) and always ready to take in new information. He doesn’t blame you for things happening outside of your control. All that said, he has anger issues. You saw this man kick a piece of furniture until it fell apart once or twice. You just breathed: “I guess those long work hours are getting to you, sir” put his coffee on his desk and left the room. War shot you a shameful glance. Not because of the chair - he doesn’t give a fuck about chairs - but because he scared you.**  
**

##  **Strife**

A fun boss**,** that one. Insisted on getting on a first-name basis with you from day one. He refers to you with such friendliness and ease of manner that it’s easy to forget that you’re his employee sometimes.“Grab me a coffee, princess. And don’t forget to get yourself one while you’re at it!” “Look, babe, we really need those papers ASAP, but the accounting chucked a wobbly again. Would you kindly pop in there and work your charm on those ladies? I can’t even.”He compliments you a lot. You don’t really mind him breaching the office code of conduct like that; the truth is, whenever his large hand grazes the small of your back, you feel a jolt of pleasure. You two joke a lot and talk about things that have nothing to do with the job: favourite foods, video games and so on. Once Strife showed you a picture of his newest date and you couldn’t but feel a pang of sorrow. What a lucky gal, you thought. He is so hot it hurts.**  
**

##  **Death**

Hoo, boy. You were scared shitless the day you found out he’s gonna be your boss. In a way you still are. This one just has…an air about him that promises grisly, well, death to all who should oppose him.So you don’t oppose. Death is an executive manager, so he doesn’t really mingle with the rest of the workforce much. You bring him his coffee - as bitter as a sinner’s tear - and all the documents and everything and anything that he should require as silently and swiftly as humanly possible, always with bated breath.He cuts such an ominous presence, sitting in this enormous, mostly empty office of his and puffing off a smelly cigar. “Thank you”, that’s all he says usually. Death gives you instructions in a low voice and he never repeats himself, so you had to seriously hone your sense of hearing.Should you fuck something up - he won’t lash out. He’ll just sigh and look at you. And those ember-like eyes seem to be boring holes in the back of your skull.**  
**

You still haven’t decided if you’re just afraid of him, attracted to him, or both.


	23. Do They Cry?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short and a sad one.

**Fury** weeps only in extreme anger. It usually doesn’t last long; she’s quick to put herself together.

**War** hasn’t shed a tear since he was a child. Nowadays he vents his frustrations by smashing things to a bloody pulp.

**Strife, **the jokester of the group - is also the one who hides away and breaks into the ugly cry from time to time. 

**Death** cries only on the inside, with convulsive dry sobs. Which feels like suffocating on crushed glass. 

He would rather take Chaoseater to the face than admit it though.


	24. Interview with the Horsemen, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How does your relationship with the human SO looks like?”

**Fury:** _*shrugs* _Smoothly, I’d say. They have accepted that I have a better brain while I’ve accepted that they have a better heart. We’re a team now.

**War:** _*earnestly*_ She’s introduced me to things I had no idea about.

**Interviewer:** “Things like?”

**War:** Various things. Deep-fried food. Historical channels on youtube. Being merciful to your opponent when he’s already down. Lying in bed for hours, just listening to each other’s heartbeat. Sex.

**Strife: **We-eh-ell, if ya really need to know… I work hard to hide what a humongous pile of shit I actually am! She hasn’t figured it out yet. _*nervous chuckle*_ A joke. That was a joke. Don’t tell her, man.

**Death:** _*with a sigh*_ I don’t have time for this. 

**Strife:** _*from afar*_ You don’t get to be a chicken, big bro! Not after I’ve just poured my heart out!

**Death: **Argh. Very well. The truth of the matter is - she refuses to acknowledge that I don’t deserve her. Why is that? How should _I_ know?

**Death: …**

**Death:** _*in a low voice*_ I’ve been blessed.


	25. Going Poly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how I feel about love triangles.

**Human:** So...you guys ain't gonna fight over me...or something?  
  
**Death:** *flatly* No.  
  
**Strife:** (lifts his head from the couch to cast you a little bittersweet grin) Nah, babe. Probably not.  
  
**Human:** I was so worried that you would! I mean, I love you both, but you two don't seem to get along at all...  
  
**Death:** (blinks)  
  
**Strife:** (blinks back) You want us to fight, sugar puff? Cause we've been doing it since the dawn of the Universe. It gets stale.  
  
**Death:** It would be a nuisance.  
  
**Strife:** *crisply* Anyway, can you imagine it? I'd give this old bastard a hard time, but he'd probably get me in the end.  
  
**Death:** *under his breath* An _extreme_ nuisance.


	26. Why is Death so attractive?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’ve talked with a friend about it. I thought I’ll share.

What exactly makes Death such a compelling fantasy boyfriend? Apart from him being a 7.2 feet (or 220 cm) tall mothereffer* with an impossible waist-to-arms ratio. Who walks like a personified treat - and talks as if fine whiskey has been poured directly onto your synapses.

The thing is: Death is unfathomable.

The more I write him, the more I notice that. He’s an extremely closed-off person. Tends to put up walls with scathing wit and standoffish body language. His standard procedure when meeting someone new is to put on the Asshole Act and let the weak weed themselves out.

The longer you know him, the easier it is to see through that abominable facade. That said, the mystery of “what is Death _exactly_ thinking?” never gets solved, not by far.

Even in a committed relationship with the Reader, he remains very much an enigma. You can perceive him being attentive and kind while remaining mostly in the dark about the complexity of his motives. The moments when the curtain pulls up are…rare. Also, they don’t exactly happen at the height of intimacy.

He is a man that can fuck the ever-loving brains out of you with an impassive face.

In real life such a relationship would go downhill very quickly. I don’t know about you, but I hate being kept in the dark by those I love. But it works beautifully in fiction, because at the end of the day Death isn’t human.

He might’ve picked up a lot of charming human mannerisms, but he is not. He’s an ancient powerful entity with unimaginable amounts of blood on his hands. Mentally and physically, he’s been through shit that is probably not even translatable into our language.

And he knows this.

He decided to let this frail little creature befriend him, tame him, open him up in many fresh and wonderful ways. They share an indisputable bond.

But it required the Reader to consciously step off the murkier areas of his lover’s mind. To let him keep his secrets, for better or for worse.

You can bed him, but you can never own him.

Also, he can low key read minds, so he’ll always know more about you than he lets on. But fret not; you’d be surprised how little he cares about things that a human boyfriend would be appalled with.

A relationship with Death is not a symmetrical one. And as my friend put it - that mysticism of his only adds to the charm.

* Quite literally.


	27. How do the Horsemen act when they're horny?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do our beloved boys (and a girl) act when overwhelmed with passion, or, if we don’t want to be Shakespearean about it - when they really wanna smash?

**Fury** wastes no words, as usual. Expect a string of low, melodic laughter and two nifty, dedicated hands grasping you from behind and fondling your fun parts in the most straightforward manner. She might even throw you over her shoulder and carry her loot towards the nearest flat surface, ignoring your surprised yelps. Be thankful if it turns out to be an actual bed and not the kitchen table.

**War** gets conflicted when he’s horny. His hot-bloodedness tells him to just go for it, but he’s afraid he might break your delicate human frame. He gets clingy as a puppy, following you from room to room, but his sheer size makes him more of an anchor to which you find yourself bound than the other way round. His large hands start to wonder about, tracing the shapes of your body, his lips cover your neck with sloppy, hasty kisses, his rushed breath hot on your skin. He won’t do anything abrupt without your permission though. So if you’re down for a romp, just look him in the eye, smile and nod. That T-shirt of yours will be gone in no time. Torn, probably.

**Strife **actually does both body language and the more verbal approach as well. There will be times when he’ll sit next to you, place his sharp chin in the crook of your neck and grab at your breasts with the largest shit-eating grin. Other days he’ll just ask with this husky, sleazy voice of his: “Hey babygirl, wanna sit on my face?” Points for being - to the point, I guess.

**Death** is an interesting one. Depending on the time of the day and his general mood, you can expect two different things. Either he will actually ask if you want to make love (and yeah, he’ll use this very expression. How old fashioned!) or, if you managed to arouse him enough with your words - he’ll just shot you a fiery look and use his Deathgrip to grab at you from across the room. Expect to have a rough, wild time. You’ll get out of it aching all over and absolutely ecstatic. That’s what you get for taunting the Grim Reaper.


	28. What They Say VS What They Think

**You:** Honey, I’m going to spend the weekend at my friends’ place. 

**War:** Right. Have fun! _(”Right. Have fun!”)_

*****

**You: **Darling, I’m going to visit my friends this weekend.

**Fury: **Right. Have fun! (_”Those people are bores. What does she even see in them? But sure. Let her have fun!”_)

*****

**You: **Baby, I’m gonna visit a friend of mine and her hubs this weekend. 

**Strife:** I hear you, babe. Have fun! (_”Why does she want to be away from me for the WHOLE TWO DAYS? Is the spark in our relationship already gone? Is she tired with me? AM I BORING HER? OH CREATOR AM I BORING HER?!”_)

*****

**You:** Love, I’m going to stay at my friend’s place for the weekend.

**Death:** …

**Death:** … (_”Is she going to be safe there? Those people cannot protect her like I do. But the last time I said that she got irritated. I don’t want to be a burden to her. I probably AM a burden to her. Why did she even chose to be with me? War is so much better looking and Strife is fun, although in an obnoxious way and I’m just a sad old cod SHE CAN NEVER BE HAPPY WITH SOMEONE LIKE ME I WISH I WAS DEAD BECAUSE THIS IS TOO MUCH TO BEAR.”_)

**Death: **(grumpily): So, when can I expect you to be back, exactly?


	29. Painkiller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a painful-as-hell period in a house full of Horsemen would be kinda hilarious.

War cradled you in his arms, silver eyebrows knitted with worry. He carefully put his good hand on your abdomen, because you told him that heat mitigates the cramps a bit.

Death was beside himself. He’s never seen you in so much pain before. Not even when a demon got you and you bled.

He had no idea what to do whatsoever, so he brew you tea. If you weren’t in such a pitiful state, you would surely tell him how delicious the tea was.

The Four gathered around you, eyes glinting with anxiety, lips pressed.

“How do we make it stop?” Strife blurted out.

“A dose of Tramadol would do the trick”, you gasped. “But it’s not an over the counter drug. So you guys would have to, I dunno…_pull a gun on some pharmacist?_…”

It was a weakass attempt at humour, but you couldn't help it. The alternative was to break down sobbing. You felt as if your intestines have been pierced with a stake.

Cue the well-known, metallic sound of two cylinders being rolled in perfect unison.

“I’m gonna pull two guns on some pharmacist”, announced Strife rather matter-of-factly and turned towards the door.

“ I’ll go with him”, said Fury quietly, yet decisively.

“What?”

“What?…” your pain-addled brain couldn't process information properly.

Her shapely fingers flexed around the whip’s handle. “In case that two guns won’t be enough.”


	30. Damned if you do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day to all the folks who spend it reading fanfics! I am one of you, just so you know :)

**Strife:** (out of the blue) Soo, princess, which one of us you love the most? Huh?

**You:** (blushing rapidly) Um..Eh...

**Fury:** *snorts* Way to ask a stupid question, you dimwit of a brother. That's not how polyamory is supposed to work at all.

**War:** (solemnly) Little One, you don't have to answer this. I am thoroughly satisfied with the degree of affection that you display towards me.

**You:** Well...uh...

**Death:** *under his breath* I'll be damned if I need to know.

**Strife:** *sniggers* Wow, aren't you guys lofty. Such loftiness, when in fact you're all wetting your pants from insecurity!

**Death and War:** ...

**You:** ...

*Later, during the night*

**Strife:** (coming out of your closet) But seriously, pumpkin. It's me you like the most, right? RIGHT?..


	31. Sometimes it's hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being polyamorous isn't always a walk in the park.

**Death has heard you two having fun last night.** Of course he did. First, his senses are all exquisitely sharp. Second, you were never one for keeping things, well, _discreet_ -

and Strife from his side did everything he could to enhance your wild guffaws and screams of delight. This guy is an absolute showoff; he lives for the audience, be it real or imagined.

The walls might’ve been carefully sound insulated - the Reaper saw to that himself - but after all you all still share a house.

So he did hear. 

“I cannot be like him, you know”, he said the next day, out of the blue. You were just putting jam on your pancake and almost fell off the kitchen stool. 

You shot your Horseman a startled glance. His voice was meticulously level. The sharp lines of his face didn’t betray much. It was in the eyes that you saw it.

It hit you like a brick. This hollowness.

This blunt ache.

“Death…”

“We’re made of different matter, my brother and I. I couldn’t make you laugh like this…even if I tried.”

“Death!”

You abandoned Mission Pancake and ran up to where your most beloved of all Nephilim was sitting, hunched, immobile, twisting and turning this rusty nail inside his ageless heart.

You covered his hands with yours. They were so small in comparison, it didn’t amount to much. But they were warm.

“Death”, you breathed, your eyes pinned to his. Gods, that self-doubt of his was almost palpable. How can anyone’s eyes say so much? The fact that they were two furnaces probably helped.

“I do love Strife. And I love you.”

“I know.” The tiniest, rueful smile laced the words. Now he turned his face slightly away from you, making the black hair rustle. Admitting his defeat.

“But he could never make me lose my breath and my mind _like you do_. Because he is him, and you are you. And as you said - you guys are nothing alike. So it all evens out in the end.”

Death looked you back in the eye and stayed like this for a while. Then his large fingers traced down your cheekbone and touched your lips. Tenderly, without any rush.

You exhaled softly, your eyelids already closing.

Before meeting the Horsemen you used to believe that Death’s embrace must be stone cold. It wasn’t the case.

His hands smelled like autumn.

“I believe you”, he said.


	32. Taking them to a Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going to a wedding with a Horseman as your “plus one” would be quite an experience.

**Fury: **She’s the person you need if you want to impress all those pesky relatives. She saunters between them like a high-heeled, murderously stylish peacock among the pigeons.

All they can do is gawk in awe.She chugs whiskey like a pirate and can outdrink all the wedding veterans while remaining sober.

Your great-uncle Joseph (the one who won’t shut up about the war) won’t stand a fighting chance.**  
**

**War: **Can’t dance for shit, won’t hold his end of a polite conversation (not that many try to strike one with this pouty behemoth of a man).

Just put him close to the barbecue, let him stuff his face and hope for the best.

Bonus points if he’s sitting next to said great-uncle Joseph, because now the old coot has landed the perfect person to monologue to about his time in the military.

The Red Rider will eventually drink himself into a bored stupor and start to nuzzle you in public. Proceed with Caution.**  
**

**Death: **What have you even promised him for coming with you? Never mind, he’s here now and all your childhood girlfriends are experiencing a fear boner.

He looks shockingly gorgeous in a crisp white shirt. He can - and will - have a charming small talk with everyone. 

Including some kids aged three and up and your great-aunt Ruthie, who has early onset dementia.

Also, did I mention that he’s a very graceful dancer?

Cousin Stacy - the one who has better education and a better job and better _everything_ \- legit hates your guts now.**  
**

**Strife: **Cons: You had to tie his tie for him. You had to improvise a pep talk about how it is bad to bring firearms to a wedding.

You’re still pretty sure he smuggled them in somehow. No matter how much gel you’re gonna dump on it - his hair won’t stay down.

He makes those kinds of loud, cheerful remarks that make your mother lose her shit.

Pros: He’s sex on legs in a crisp white shirt. The more dishevelled, the better. Cousin Stacy ain’t gonna recover.

He’ll drink like a Viking, but never lose it. He will dance you like you’ve never been danced.

After a few hours he might get bored with this whole shebang, say: "Oopsie daisy, I dropped my _cufflink_ in there!" and proceed to do you under the wedding table. **  
**


	33. How they’ll confess their love

**Azrael:** It’s been aeons since he cared about anyone in that way, but should it happen concerning you - he’ll handle it like an old-school champ that he is. Expect to receive the most robust bouquet of flowers ever and a card. Written in such a fancy squiggly way that you can barely read it out. In golden ink, probably.

**Fury: **Curtly and to the point. She’ll tell you as soon as she finds out that she’s in love. Won’t make a big deal out of it either.

**War: **Will sit on it for quite a while, trying to find the best words. This guy is not very smooth with words. In the end, he’ll act on instinct, as he always does. Expect a simple “I love you” breathed into your ear during an especially heated make-out session.

**Death:** Technically he does tell you that he loves you…every day. Sometimes even more often. Under his breath _and_ in Nephilim, which he very well knows you can’t understand.

**Strife:** Oh, this is gonna be fun. He’ll get himself plastered and start raising hell under your balcony window until you actually get out there.

**Strife**: Y/N! Get outta here! IT’S IMPORTANT! Come on!..

**You **(crusty-eyed and clad in your pyjamas, cause it’s 3.a.m):

It’s 3 A. M. What the hell, mate?

**Strife:** Oooh good, you did come out. This is IMPORTANT! You gotta listen to me!…

**You** (sourly): I’m all ears, Strife.

**Strife: **Princess. Pancakes. You’re the loveliest little muffin that ever muffin’d, you know that?

**You** (with an internal groan): To the point, please?…

**Strife:** I’m in love with you!

**You** (dumbfounded): …whut?….

**Strife**: I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU, PRINCESS PUMPKIN! Light of my life, you are. I cannot stress enough how much I pumpkin you. You are the sweetest cookie glaze. I WANT TO LICK YOU AND -

**You:** Jesus. Get upstairs before I get evicted.


	34. To the left, to the left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine asking your abusive partner to leave your life and your house, effective immediately, but they won't listen.
> 
> Suddenly a wild Horseman appears at your door...

**Fury** listens to your story, hand on hip, the fingers of another flexing discreetly around the handle of her trusted weapon. She taxes their cheating ass and asks them in a clipped voice if they could remove themselves from the property. If they’re a man, they’ll probably put on a show of ill-advised bravado and tell her to “make them.”

She makes them. Oh, that she does.

**War** just yeets them. If they’ll meet a wall on their way out, too bad for the wall, cause it won’t do much to change their overall trajectory.

You can tell how angry **Strife** got after listening to the story of your predicament because he kept the damn helmet on. He’d always take it off the minute he stepped into your abode, but not this time. The impassive mask eyes the schmuck that wronged you; the yellow light of its visors ain’t exactly friendly.

“Door or window?” Strife asks in a surprisingly level voice, but you can feel the rage bubbling underneath.

“Huh? What?…” Your ex is properly spooked but still hasn’t grasped the reality of their situation.

“I‘m asking if you prefer to leave via the door or the window. Choose wisely, bub, for there will be no second takes.”

“This is outrageous… You can’t make me!… Who are you anyway?”

It was just one step - one fluid, terrifyingly swift movement, too fast for your human eyes to register. Suddenly the gunslinger has a firm hold on their arm. They squirm.

“Glad you’ve asked. I am the waste disposal service.”

**Death** stepped in, assessed the situation and gave them a stare. His head moved so little, those long, stiff strands of matted black hair didn’t flail at all.

That was it. Just one stare.

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving, I’m leaving!”


	35. Why Death doesn't sleep?

**H**e doesn’t sleep…much. That you already know. He is able to, but as with eating - such trivial acts are an entirely voluntary pastime for him and his siblings.

Nephilim brains don’t have to recharge as often as your does.

Back when you first met him, at the beginning of that bizarre journey that turned the most mismatched pair of the Universe into allies, bedmates, friends even - he would never doze off. At all. You’d fall asleep and then wake up seeing his unflinching gaze. He watched over you night after night. 

Not much later you two became lovers - that’s another story for another time.

And you found out that carnal pleasure actually unwinds him to the point when he’s able to catch some z’s.   
It was a pleasant discovery. One that you took no small amount of pride in making. 

He never got used to sleeping through each and every night like an average human being though. Well, he’s everything but average. 

One thing the Pale Rider won’t tell you (among many a thing he won’t tell you) is this: he can see your soul. Not in a metaphorical sense. In a very literal one. He’s the Reaper after all. The flickering flame of your lifeforce is like a flame in a lamp to him. Shining bright through - well, the fleshy parts of you.

He learned to block this sensation out, to focus on you as a person, on your words, on your face. It was for the better. But the flame burns most serenely, is at its most beautiful when you’re asleep. And when nobody can see him, Death is unable to resist its primal allure.

He spends hours and hours propped up on one elbow, entranced with this warmth that’s so akin to a candle flame, this soothing glow that radiates from your fragile human body.

He made a silent pledge to protect this light with all it takes.

Watching it - watching you like this - fills him with a sense of peace.


	36. Taking them to a Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine that your grandmother (who you haven’t spoken to since quite a few years, Because Reasons) has died and now you have to attend the funeral.

The rest of your family - who you don’t talk to that much either - will be there. Awkward.

Obviously the Four Horsemen offer to go there with you (”You’re our family now, kiddo!”) You’re quite sure that showing up in the cemetery with a bunch of oversized, muscular and heavily armed friends will do nothing to diffuse the situation.

But they insist. Apparently the Nephilim idea of a funeral is putting someone’s corpse on a funeral pyre. And then drinking a lot. Merrily.

You gather them around and explain that human funerals are supposed to be decidedly un-merry, somber, super uptight occasions.

That one has to wear black and be all buttoned up and blend in and ABSOLUTELY NO WEAPONS.

“Oh, great then!” says Strife. “I can blend in! I blended in before!”

“Strife. No weapons.”

“What do you mean by that? What if a bloodthirsty demon shows up in the cemetery?”

Death is positive that he’s already got the “being somber and uptight” part down in spades.

“That true, love. But you gotta work harder on the ‘being all buttoned up’ part”, you say. “Or some of the elderly relatives are gonna have a serious case of existential confusion.”

“…what if a whole army of bloodthirsty demons attacks just then and there? Huh? What do you expect us to do, make Death kill them with sarcasm?”

Fury’s lips curl up in a smile. Then she snaps her fingers and voila - now she’s wearing a tight, but definitely classy black number.

Which showcases her figure beautifully while not revealing anything at all. There are also black stilettos involved. The kind you would never wear unless you have a death wish.

Also, her hair has changed to match the outfit. Now it looks like a purple-black, silky flame.

“You’re always so stylish,” you say with genuine awe.

She smiles and shrugs slightly. “The gifts from the Lord of Hollows do come handy.”

The next day it turns out that both Death AND Strife have come to the cemetery wearing suits and ties. Now they look like ridiculously hot corporate executives with wild hair.

They exchange a dirty look, snort under their breaths and proceed to look away from each other for the rest of the event.

And then there’s War.

It was really considerate of him to leave Chaoseater at home.

He’s so broad-shouldered and towering that the tombstones seem to desperately get out of his way. Also, his every step produces a massive, metallic, quite ominous clang.

You’re quite sure that the mourners are going to lose their shit.

On the flip side - he did button up.

“What?” he asks, approaching the rest of you and eyeing the expression on your face. “ The Abyssal Armor is the only black clothes that I have.”


	37. Easier

**Y**ou did well for quite a while. Black humour and pluckiness as learned coping mechanisms shielded you from - well, from the gist of it.

Which was that your life was over. Hell, humanity was over. With you as a sole remnant of an entire species. A cruel joke. A useless fossil.

You didn’t love your fellow humans all that much. You’ve been hurt so thoroughly that sometimes it felt like that tired old cliche; like you don’t even have a heart anymore. Just a scab.

And the drudgery of everyday life, that constant struggle to make ends meet - didn’t do much for you either. You’d often dream of escape, even if it would mean slipping into nothingness.

But now, when nothingness was at your grasp - after all, you’d only have to ask Death for it - somehow you felt poignantly alive. And aching.

And one day it all just…stockpiled in you and you stood still and started to shake.

“Death, I need you to come here and hold me tight,” you said in a thin, artificially level voice. “Like…really tight, okay? I think I’m losing it.”

“Are you going to be all right?” That’s all he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Death came over and closed you in his embrace. He pressed his large body to your back. 

And he didn’t let go.

He didn’t let go when you shivered or when you cried; or when crying morphed into ugly sobs, which in turn gave way to mounting hysteria. At that point, you twitched uncontrollably and fought for your breath while giving out most unattractive sounds possible. You had no idea of being capable to wail and whimper like that.

He didn’t let go when tears and snot poured from your face and stained his fingers.

Your panic-addled brain weakly registered the steady firmness of his hold. And you were grateful for it. Without Death’s grip, you might fall on the ground and hurt yourself.

The breakdown came and went. You still trembled, but less and less spasmodically. Finally, after the longest time - you were able to form a coherent sound.

“Ugh. I feel like I vomited my eyeballs” you gasped. “Is that what dying feels like? Because if so, then I don’t wanna die anymore.”

Death’s hands gingerly traced your forearms.

“No”, he answered. “This is what being alive feels like. From what I can gather… dying is much easier.”


	38. Social Distancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn’t want to do this whole Self-Isolating thing with most of the Horsemen.

**Fury** hates being forced to do anything, so she’ll complain about this loudly all day. Or worse, try to pick up a fight with you. Imagine a cranky, talkative, although undeniably luscious cat, being in your face all. The. Time.

**War** has no problem keeping in line with orders. But he’s a big man, for whom only the Great Outdoors often seems spacious enough. Not being able to see his horse makes him Grumpy big time. He gets cabin fever fast - and he gets it bad. You’ve never seen a person of this stature before tromp angrily to and fro, while the floor reverbs from his weight and the walls seem to shake…and you really don’t want to.

**Strife **is absolutely the worst when it comes to prolonged confinement. Why? Well, he’s got ADD. And a bad case of Creativity Overflowing. Not to mention he’s over six feet tall and superhumanly athletic. Bored Strife can get up to the weirdest, most dangerous shit imaginable. Think like “let’s build a ballista in the attic!” weird. He’ll probably drag you into his shenanigans, too, because he can be such a charmer and let’s face it; you’re also bored out of your skull.

A man like this should not be left to his own devices in a closed-off space of a home - any home. At least not for long.

**Death** though… Death is a breath of fresh air among all this madness. Confined or not, he mostly doesn’t care. There’s always a lot to do to keep both his mind and his hands in motion. He’ll meticulously sharpen all the weapons, big and small. He’ll meditate. Or help you bake a cake if that’s your fancy. Even though he doesn’t really dig sweets. His dry humour and no-nonsense approach to this whole thing work wonders for your frayed nerves, too. 

And he’s the only one fast enough to disarm all of his siblings at once, should they go collectively bonkers from boredom and start a three-way brawl.


	39. Household Chores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which Horsemen are best (or worst) suited for helping you with particular chores around the house?

**_War_ **

_**Dos: **_Need to move a couch? A bookcase? A refrigerator? War will gladly relocate them for you. With just one hand, probably. Rearranging furniture had never been easier. If for any reason you need a wall torn down, just ask him to give it a nudge. Please ascertain that this was not a supporting wall before you do. 

_**Dont’s: **_By the love of everything that you hold dear, don’t let this man near kitchen appliances. Or glassware. Or anything breakable, really. Our murder puppy has no idea how strong he actually is. His hands were made for punching things to death, not holding human knickknacks.

_ **Fury** _

**_Dos:_** If you feel like your home decor game is subpar, call in Fury to help you. Out of the Four she has the most taste - prepare yourself for a spirited discussion about colour palettes and such. Fury also has the smallest hands, so if there’s some precise tinkering to be done (like drilling a hole in the wall), ask her. Unless it’s about the plumbing. She’s above such smelly tasks.

_**Dont’s: **_Plumbing, heavy lifting (she can do it, but she finds it boring), anything concerning human technology that is more complicated than a drill - she’s abysmal with it and doesn’t care to improve. She snorts at the concept of electricity. (”The absurd lengths to which the humans would go just NOT to use proper magic!”)

** _Strife_ **

_**Do’s:**_ **Strife** is the master tinkerer of the Four - he enjoys taking things apart and putting them back together just to see what makes them tick. If you keep having power surges in the house and don’t know the reason, grab him. He can fix your broken vacuum cleaner. He can fix anything. He’s also the one most interested in human cuisine and quite graceful, so use him in the kitchen. Just brace yourself for some shenanigans. Like, a lot of them.

_**Dont‘s: **_That one cannot be trusted with the drill. Last time you asked him for a hole, he made seventy-nine. And they created a huge inscription in all caps, reading STRIFE WAS HERE.

_ **Death** _

_**Do’s**_: Death is the most level-headed of the Horsemen and also the most pragmatic one. He doesn’t really care how monotone or unpleasant the task at hand is, he will commit to it all the same. He doesn’t eat much, but whenever you ask him to chop some veggies, those will be perfectly chopped. He’s probably the only one that will actually wash the dishes with you. Plumbing problems don’t disgust him; he’s a necromancer after all. He smelled worse smells in his lifetime.

**_Dont’s_**: Don’t ask him if he prefers lavender walls over turquoise ones. He couldn’t care less.

**Bonus: Azrael** is completely useless regarding such trivial tasks. Our posh feathered boi spends his whole life in luxury. (Which means that someone else does everything for him.) Of course, he’ll never admit it. If you’re having a crappy day and need some entertainment, ask him to load the dishwasher. But should you ever need your books neatly catalogued - he’s your man.


	40. Lap Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got asked on tumblr once:  
"How would the Horsemen react to their s/o giving them a lap dance?"

**Fury:** She’s a natural when it comes to receiving attention. She’ll grab herself a comfier chair and possibly a drink, sit back and let you do your thing with a smug smile quirking her lips.

**War: **The moment he sees you dressed scantily and posed for the kill - the Big Guy will probably lunge at you with one thing on his mind. Good luck with explaining that no, that’s not what you had in mind but yes, he will be able to touch you, just not yet and _oh gods, how are we on the floor already? _

After some much-needed explanation about the art of teasing dance he will finally plop down on the sofa and let you do your thing. And then he’ll get flushed in the face. Eyes glazed over with lust, lips parted, face the shade of tomato, nicely matching that hood of his. A sight to behold.

**Strife:** He’d been on a receiving end of more lap dances than you can imagine. Actually it’s better if you don’t imagine - nothing saps one’s confidence as the awareness that you’re just one among the crowd, doesn’t it. Thankfully our gunslinger is wise enough not to tell you that.

He’s been around since forever, but never lost that amazing youthful sense of wonder. So when you offer to dance for him, he’s gonna be enthusiastic.

Frankly, it’s hard to focus on your dance moves when this long-limbed paragon of sexiness sits sprawled across the room, wiggling his thick eyebrows at you. Sooner or later you’ll engage in close-quarter contact and those nervous, brilliant hands of his will land on your barely clad ass. And this will be the end of dancing.

**Death:**

“What are you doing?…”

There was no bite in his gravelly voice, just astonishment. Anyway, not the reaction you’ve been hoping to elicit in your Horseman.

“Shush. I’m gonna dance for you now.”

“Dance?” He sure seemed dumbfounded. “But…why?”

You rolled your eyes a little. “Just sit your bony ass down and watch, okay? The purpose shall reveal itself to you in a hot minute.”

The Horseman sighed but sat his ass down as instructed. His facial expressions changed swiftly while you did your painstakingly rehearsed routine; from mild scepticism, through dawning comprehension, to an almost-smile of sorts. Death never really grins - not like Strife does - but you could tell by his relaxed body language and the slight tilt of the lips that he is pleased.

You flipped your hair and sauntered closer. So close that your knees touched. Death’s hands moved like two cobras; suddenly you were held in an ironclad embrace. Your breath hitched.

“That was beautiful”, he cooed into your ear, making all the little hairs stand on their ends. “Truly exquisite. Now let’s fuck.”


	41. Will Death ever take his mask off?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got asked this on Tumblr ages ago:  
"Do you believe that Death would ever take his mask off in front of his s/o, through years of trust and bond building, even if he didn’t take it off in the light, would he take it off in the dark and let them feel his face?"

Yes! I’ve given this issue a lot of thought and will_ definitely _write the proper story some day, but for now, have kind of a…synopsis? :)

After the fortuitous meeting on Earth and travelling through Makers’ realm for some time - their budding relationship takes a turn for the carnal.

The S/O that I have in mind is a bold, no-nonsense person who doesn’t have a problem with asking a guy she’s just met if he wants some. The foundations of reality have just crumbled around her, and she’s feeling adventurous. Death has been touch-starved for aeons and begrudgingly finds her more attractive with every passing day…but given how abysmal his self-image is, it still takes some persuasion to make him open to her sexually. What seals the deal is when the reader offers to wash his hair. This happens while they visit Drenchfort and its basins.

They became lovers after that. But the Reaper keeps his mask firmly on, and seeing how much of an issue it is - she doesn’t prod. This man’s capable of making her melt with his hands and words alone.

Then, much later (maybe in the Land of the Dead?) something bad happens to her. A surprise demon attack that leaves her on the verge of a grisly demise. Death goes above and beyond to heal her, and succeeds. Still, confronted with how fragile his human companion really is, how easy to be lost forever - he realizes that he cares about this girl more than he’s willing to admit. And he wants to give her…something.

Words are off-limits for this self-contained, bitter old cod. But that night he’ll choose a cave that is pitch black, take his mask off and go down on her like there’s no tomorrow. She’ll be ecstatic. Some wandering feverishly hands will happen during and she’ll get a very hazy idea of how this man actually looks like - but nothing more. Death will tenderly, sorrowfully deny her actually kissing him.

The next time he takes his mask off in her presence will be next to the Well of Souls.


	42. Baubles

**D**eath gave out a sigh. It was truly an impressive specimen; long, throaty and lingering in the air like fog on the day of someone’s funeral.

This time it seemed that the funeral would be Strife’s.

“I had news from Samael this morning.” He appraised his younger brother with a stare so tender one could stew pickles in it. “He says hello. He also says he’s going to hang your head over his fireplace.”

Strife prudently looked elsewhere.

“Gee. I wonder who shat in his cereal...”

“Strife. What have you done this time?”

The sharpshooter delayed answering this question. First, it was some lint on his well-worn scarf that needed removing. Then an invisible speckle on one of his holsters. Strife took great pride in the appearance of his holsters. He spat at his finger, rubbed the offending spot clean and only then raised those eyes full of swirling gold and mischief.

“Well. I might have - or might’ve not - sneaked on the old fart while he was snoring and painted candy stripes on his antlers.”

“Candy stripes?”

“Yeah, ya know, white and pink. _Festive_.”

Death inhaled slowly.

“And that was it?”

Strife’s gaze omitted his brother’s with extreme prejudice.

“Uh, I might’ve also added some fairy lights. Or a bauble. Or two.”


	43. About Sleep

**War **has probably never been insomniac in his life. He is a sound sleeper; every morning after you wake up on top of his chest, which is radiating intense warmth and heaving with breath like a boat on waves.

**Fury** is a fussy one. The slightest noise wakes her up. She hates mornings with a passion and only stops being miserably cranky after you bring her her first cup of coffee.

**Death** seldom dozes off at all...for various reasons. And most of the time he comes back to life hours before you anyway. The first thing you see in the morning is him sitting ramrod straight, wide back pressed against the headboard. He’s either reading or submerged in a meditative trance. The moment you make the slightest noise, that acute, piercing stare of his lands on you. You used to be spooked out by that. Nowadays you know that this is how Death expresses care. By just_ being there._

**Strife** usually sleeps in the messiest, across-the-bed position possible. He has the tendency to squeeze you in a crushing embrace or pin you to the mattress with one of his long legs; many times you’d come to with a wheeze.

But the first time you two shared a bed things were different. You woke up straight into his eyes, wide and golden and pinned to your face. It was so uncanny that you flinched.

“...What?” you croaked, your brain still in the process of rebooting.

Strife cracked a smile - one of those boyish, bittersweet ones which were two parts charm and one part apology.

“Hi, bean bun.”

“Have you even slept at all?...”

“Might’ve. Dunno. Needed to make sure that you are really here.”


	44. How they smile

**War’s** got one of those set-in-stone faces that don’t seem like they were made to convey emotion. You can still remember the first time when he guffawed in your presence.

His laughter sounded like polished brass, twinkling in the air.

His smiles are mostly of the shy and subdued kind. They always make him look so much younger.

**Death **used to cover his face for so long that he mastered the art of smiling with his eyes only. Not that he would do that often. Nowadays the bone mask rests in his nightstand drawer more and more.

Still, you have yet to see the Reaper fully beaming. He does tiny fleeting smirks; from time to time one corner of his mouth quirks upwards and that’s that.

**Strife** is the most expressive in this department. His repertoire covers adorable little half-smiles, cheeky grins and everything in between. He can curve his lips in the most suggestive (and aggravating) ways.

The thing is, the expression doesn’t always reach his eyes.

You’ve been taken aback by how many times Strife’s eyes would remain sad. Like, “a little kid who has been told that Christmas is cancelled” sad.

You can’t help but wonder if _this_ is his default mental state? You feel like such a chicken for not asking.


	45. Baby

**"Baby."**

The word tore out of you while you weren’t at your most lucid. It took the pink fumes to disperse and both of your steaming bodies to hit the disarranged bedsheets for some well-deserved rest before you realized what you’ve just said. Before you started to feel silly about it.

Death’s hand carefully moved a damp hair strand away from your face.

“What you’ve just called me…” he observed, “you have never used this particular word before.”

“What, _baby_? It just slipped off my tongue.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a common term of endearment among humans. Don’t think too hard about it.” You almost snorted at yourself. Telling The Reaper _not _to overthink stuff? Brilliant idea. Very likely to succeed.

Your companion laid on his back, giving out a small, contented sigh. His chin darted up, fiery eyes idly contemplating the ceiling. But you could tell that under that long, stiff hair (it was so black it ate up all the light) the cogs kept whirring.

“It is my understanding that_ baby _means a very young human, freshly released from their mother’s womb”.

How did this man get to remain so infuriatingly level-headed? Like, always? But there was a rich purring undertone, coiling his words.

Death was relaxed. Happy, even. And you did this.

“Babies are small of stature, soft of skin, all in all rather…round. They’re also known to emit high pitched noises. None of this subscribes to me.”

“You know how pet names work, right?” You chuckled, pulling yourself closer to him. Pressing your cheek against his ashy pectoral. It was indeed anything but soft.

“I am aware, yes. The thing is - usually, you gave me such that I could at least partially identify with. Are you sure that this one was…for me?”

No written words can convey the effect of Death’s lazy delivery, this_ easygoingness _which he only exuded after fucking your brains out with gusto. He was messing with you now, not angry at all. But he_ knew_.

If your ears moved like a cat’s, now would be the time to nervously shift them.

It’s not easy to switch between three boyfriends. You’ve chosen different pet names for all of them. Each one got the sweet talk which you felt that reflects their personality.

Using the very same words for all of them felt somehow…disrespectful.

Death was usually just _love _or _darling. _ The stark grandeur of those terms fitted him well. 

Strife got _handsome _and he seemed to get his kicks out of it big time. War got the mawkish terms, like_ honey _or_ baby, _ because as big and strong as he was - his awkwardness melted your heart.

And in the heat of the moment, you’ve just called Death by War’s word.


	46. Staying in bed all day with the Horsemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While *not* having sex for a change.

**War: **You lie curled up in the crook of his arm and listen to him recall his numerous adventures. Surprise number one: despite being fond of this elevated and somewhat archaic style of speech, the Big Guy is not a storyteller. He stumbles often, searching for the right words. Surprise number two: he seems bashful because of this. And your willingness to listen anyway makes him quietly, but very visibly happy. It’s as if no one ever asked for his life story before.

**Fury:** She holds you close to her chest in a possessive manner. It's not long until her eyes start to slip shut, her whole long, athletic body relaxes and you hear something akin to a snore?* "Fury..." you mumble, trying to wriggle out of her (suddenly really heavy) embrace. "Wake up!..."

Her head darts up, two pearly peepers looking into yours, as sudden and alert as a cat's. "I'm not sleeping", she declares decisively and goes back to snoring.

**Death: **He supports himself on one elbow, leaning over you, and just listens. His unwavering attention feels like a pull of a strong current. So you talk and talk while his fingers slide all over you, drawing intricate invisible designs on your arms, legs and torso. You’d call this subdued caress _absentminded_...but when is this man’s mind ever truly absent?

**Strife: **Engages in a pillow fight or a tickle contest with you, then hugs you with a confusing amount of zeal - and then starts snoring. His face gets lodged between your breasts. A conked out Horseman somehow gets heavier than a conscious one, so you can’t get up. That damn pointy hair tickles like nobody’s business.

*It is my firm headcanon that the Riders snore thanks to their noses being broken in battle - all of them except Death, that is. There were but one or two enemies who've managed to strike him in the face. Even then the mask took most of the damage.


	47. Getting drunk with Strife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My friend from Tumblr wrote a prompt today:  
"Imagine spending a night with Strife and just doing these shots until you can’t remember a single thing."  
This is but a short, but it does contain drunk people shenanigans. Just so you know. I thought the topic might be triggering to some.

**_ S_**trife is the best and_ the worst _drinking companion. He can put industrial amounts of booze (any booze, although I think the American whiskey would be his poison of choice) inside his person and still appear reasonable and alert.

Until you look into his eyes and notice how their famed gleam got tapered to a milky state. Now it glistens like hot honey.

“You know I love you, right?” He notions out of the blue, voice thick with sudden ardour. One of those long arms pulls you against his chest and you just…go with it.

After all, all this trying to measure up to him made you very not sober.

“I love you like you wouldn’t believe, pepperpot. My little star in the sky. I thought I’d never reach you, yet here you are, muffincakes. Sweetness incarnate. You are fucking incredible, yaknowthat? Fuck words. More Jim Beam!”

“I think you’d had quite enough…” you murmur, wrapped in his scent. You’re trying to convey strict concern, but words lose all shape and substance in your mouth. They fly outside soft like overcooked noodles.

"Yeah.” He leans over you. His eyes are two golden milky chasms, the smile seems lopsided, fluttering, uneven.

Such a peculiar smile: two parts boyish charm, one part some unbound bitterness the source of which you could never know. “I always do that. I drink too much, I feel too strongly, I am just…pro-found-ly dis-re-gu-la-ted, yaknow? That’s what Death said, at least.”

Strife gives out a small, sad chuckle and you hold your breath, because as drunk as you are - you can still tell this is not the time for commentary.

“Nevermind. Fuck it! Fuck this bland world that doesn’t take kindly to a flame. Fuck those oatmeal-flavoured, pastel-ass bastards, all of them. They can take a cactus to the ass. Kiss me?”

You close your eyes. His breath smells like bourbon. He tastes of bourbon and burning desperation, and desire.


	48. Tidbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm in no place mentally to write anything more substantial, so have a handful of tiny sketches. It's the literary equivalent of fine cut confetti, but hey, it's something.

**Strife:** *saunters by with face composed into an innocent expression*

I see. You and War've been quarrelling.

**Human SO:** (still livid, because it’s true) What gave it away, Sherlock?

**Strife: **Well, for one, the door’s still left open...

**Human SO: **How very astute.

**Strife: ***(undeterred)...and there’s this brother-shaped hole in the wall right next to it.

***

**You:** Hey guys, check this quiz out. _“If you were to be stuck on a desert island and could take only one thing with you, what would that be?”_

**Fury: **A lot of sunscreen, that’s to be sure. Or a supply of margaritas.

**Strife: **A knife? To open all them coconuts!

**War: **_*frowning*_ I would not.

**You: **You mean you wouldn’t take anything or...?

**War**: I would not leave for a deserted island. I would refuse.

**You: **Look, baby, it’s not about whether you want to go or not. It’s -

**War: **_*dourly*_ Let them try and move me if I decide to stand still.

**Strife:** Wow. Someone’s not a fan of the Tropics!

**Death:** I’d take _Vulgrim._

**You: ** *_*

**Everyone else: ** _..._

**Death: **What? I’ll take him so he’ll concoct me a portal, so I can leave the damn island.

***

**Strife:** _*looking at rain* _What if no one truly likes me? Maybe they just tolerate me because I’m the funny guy? I wonder...

**War:** _(steps into the frame carrying a humongous box of Kentucky Fried Chicken)_ Do not wonder, brother. Nothing good ever comes from wondering. Reach out to those that you hold dear. Let them know that you care. Give them an opportunity to show you kindness in return.

**Strife:** 0_0

**War:** _*munches*_

**Strife:** Waitmaminute. Who are you and what have you done with my little brother?

**War: ** _*crushes bird bones with his teeth*_

**Strife:** No, but seriously. Since when are you the expert on feelings?

**War:** *proudly* I speak with our human a lot. _(extends box to Strife)_

_***_

**You: **So...bringing up all your siblings on your own. What was it like?

**Death: **_*falling into the armchair with a sigh*_ Sheer hell.

**You:** _*cautiously*_ Oh.

**Death:** The twins were always at each other’s throats. Like a pair of badgers. And later, when War showed up, he’d often end up pulled into Strife’s shenanigans while Fury laughed her bottom off. They were rowdy, messy, disobedient and _absolutely fucking unpredictable _-

**You: **...you’re smiling.

**Death: **I am not.

**You:** Yes you are. That left corner...of your lips, here...is twitching.

**Death: ** _*gently holds your outstretched hand and covers his mouth with it*_


	49. Of embraces

Death might know a hundred witty ways to convey his disdain for others. On the Positive Feels front tho? Not so much. His self-expression in this department tends to be curt and sparse.

He wasn’t a hugger before he met you. 

In a way, he still fails to fully embrace (heh) the purpose of a close physical contact that isn’t sexual. 

But he’s observant, and he learns fast.

It started back at the beginning, during your shared trek in the search for the Tree of Life. You’ve tried your damnedest to act all tough and plucky, but fresh trauma was piling up on you big time. It felt as if your mind was shattering.   
Death soon found out that the only thing that helped with the panic attacks was to grab at you, hold you tight and not let go.

That journey is in the past now. You’ve healed a lot and so did he. You two have since invented many other purposes for a hug; less desperate, more uplifting ones. 

Death’s low-key in awe over how much you like it. His chest is as inviting as a rocky riverbed, yet you keep pressing your soft cheeks against it. And that anxious, fluttering flame of your lifeforce calms down whenever you seek solace in his arms.

He might not get it, not in full. But he enjoys it nonetheless.


	50. Melancholy

You found **War** sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by your months’ supply of peanut butter jars.

Some of them were just broken. Some obviously been crushed into a sticky pulp bristling with glass shards.

War’s face looked as stony and impassive as the day you’ve met him. Which told you all you needed to know.

“Bad day, huh?” you asked, unscrewed the lid of the last remaining jar, grabbed two biggest spoons, and plopped down next to him.

War has two different hands; one of his own and another cast in iron.

Both were made for punching things to death, not holding dainty human knickknacks.


End file.
